


A Trick of the Light: collected short works

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Art Modelling, Awkward Conversations, Blood, Boys Kissing, Breaking and Entering, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Chronic Pain, Circle life, Confessions, Crossover, Drabble Collection, Drunkenness, Escape Attempt, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, First Dates, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Girls Kissing, Grief/Mourning, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Healing, Homecoming, Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Relationships, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mages and Templars, Medical Procedures, Memories, Multi, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Game(s), Relationship(s), Religious Discussion, Television Watching, Unplanned Pregnancy, blame, reconcilliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 38,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the short works I've posted on tumblr. Lengths range from drabble to ficlet, and the pairings are various.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Brightness and Shade' [Cassandra x Varric, unprompted]

**Author's Note:**

> This collection is just my attempt to keep these tiny stories from floating away altogether, and perhaps giving them another outing. Prompted and unprompted works, all sorts of ships, a terrible mishmash of a pile. Ships relevant to the work are in the title, tags relevant in the notes at the start, as is the tumblr user I wrote it for (if I know, and if it was prompted). Not included here are stories related to Adoribull Prompt Sunday (they're seperate stories), or Bright Wastelands, Full of Noise (those are housed in the collection Tour Edition).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in a moment of weakness, after playing Cass' _Guilty Pleasures_ quest. I'm always a bit weak for these two, (weak for Cassandra in general) and I love the idea of Cassandra reading Varric's old stuff when he was slow to write more _Swords_. Tags: Developing relationship/s, fans, fluff

“Hey, Seeker…”

Cassandra snaps the book shut, looking for all the world as if Varric has caught her in the middle of doing something far more private than reading.  He can’t help it - he snorts a laugh, and then asks, “Let me guess -  _ Swords and Shields _ again?”

 

“No, Varric,” Cassandra huffs, and rolls her eyes impatiently.  She opens her mouth, pausing over what she is going to say next, then holds up the book, cover out as she says, “ _ The Dasher’s Men _ , actually.  My…” another huff, and then she continues, “My favourite author writes too slowly, so I’m reading through his older works.”  She smirks at his frankly astonished expression, and says with a lift of her eyebrows, “It’s rather good.”

 

He is stunned to silence.  When he finally trusts himself to speak again, he tilts his head and asks, “That’s damning by faint praise, isn’t it?  Only  _ rather _ good?”

 

She smirks back, her eyes alight, and then rises.  Holding the book in both hands, low across her stomach, she looks down at him to say, “Well, I’ve yet to come across a bosom heaving with the heavy breath of desire, or a love-rod swollen by pulsating lust…” and she grins outright at the shamefaced look of him, “But despite these major literary failings, yes, Varric.  It is rather good.”

 

He cannot help it, he grins back at her and says, almost against his better judgement, “Well, you can descend back into the literary wasteland of trashy romance soon.  That last chapter of  _ Swords _ was… sorta fun to write.  So…”

“Oh, Varric!  Is there another?  Are you really writing more?”

He chuckles, the sun warm on his back and shoulders as he watches the light reflect off her armour and in the dark depths of her eyes.  “For you, Seeker.  I am for you.”


	2. 'Confession' [Samson x Cullen, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the lovely venatohru on tumblr, bloody ages ago. The prompt was taken from a flowers meme. Tags for this work are: prior relationship, post-coital cuddling, boys kissing, confessions, fluff.

He leans his chin against the dark hair, smiling as a wayward hand traces a line idly across his chest.  The moonlight shines through the hole in the ceiling, still to be patched even after all this time - he’s as yet unclear if the Inquisitor even knows this is where he sleeps.  Sleeps and dreams.  Without thinking, he asks, “When was the last time you went to confession?”

 

Samson snorts.  Taking his hand from Cullen’s bare chest, he pushes up and looks steadily at him for a moment, a slightly playful look in his eyes as he replies, “I might have been the enemy once, but I’m not a fucking monster, Len.”  He shrugs and answers, “A week ago.  And I didn’t  _ go _ .  Some Mother came and relieved me.  Captivity has its perks, sometimes.”  He sighs, and the smirk goes from his face as he asks Cullen, “Can you really imagine that I’d have that much to confess these days?”

 

The warm patch that was left when Samson moved his body away from Cullen’s feels colder still.  Abashed, Cullen starts, “I was only wondering…”

“I know.  I know,” Samson glances at him then, then just as quickly looks away.  Cullen sees that the whites of his eyes are less pink than he’s seen them, and he smiles a little, thankful that the red is at last releasing it’s hold on him.  Samson takes a deep breath and says, “Look, I might hate what the Chantry did to us.  But… I still believe.  I… I still… you know…”

 

Cullen frowns, curious at the sudden reluctance in Samson’s voice.  “What?  You still what?”  He asks, unable to keep the wonder out of his voice.  Samson sighs, clenches his jaw and then, in a tumble of words, tells him, “Ugh, pray, I still pray, alright?”  A long pause where the bright moonlight dims and then returns as a cloud passes overhead.  Cullen’s frown deepens, and he opens his mouth to ask, but Samson beats him to it, muttering in a low tone, “For you, Lion of Skyhold.”

 

Cullen’s mouth closes abruptly, and he shakes his head a little, astonished.  “But…” he begins, then once again, Samson interrupts, sounding almost annoyed as he does, “Yeah, for you.  I mean, they might not mean much in the scheme of things, I suppose, my little prayers.  But Len… you’re out there every day, killin’ yourself over those idiots in the field.  And from what I heard, Adamant was more luck than anything else…”  

 

Cullen bristles at that, wants to tell him that the soldiers he has trained are not idiots, and that Adamant was the result of months of planning and preparation, but Samson’s look is determined.  Eventually, Samson mutters, “But… aw, Maker take it,” and he sighs harshly, finally looking at Cullen, “I just don’t think a little divine intervention would go amiss.”  And suddenly, he lunges forward, kissing Cullen with a ferocity that only comes from too much loss, his hands warm on Cullen’s neck, under his jaw.  Cullen doesn’t have time to begin to return the kiss; just as suddenly as Samson is there, he is gone again, looking worriedly at Cullen as he says, “Andraste’ll get you eventually.  But for now, you’re mine.  And I can’t help you all caged up as I am, so she’s gotta do her bit.  Keep you safe.  For me.”


	3. 'Freckles' [Cullen x Dorian, unprompted, sorta]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written when I said to Cassandrashipsit on tumblr, "ooh, write a Cullrian about this song!" after I'd listened to Alt-J's song 'Freckles'. She said I should add it to the ever growing list of things I should write... so I did. Tags: sexual content, mutual pining, relationship

The Commander’s shoulders are going to burn.  Dorian watches Cullen’s sweat-slicked back move, his shield raised, the curving blow of the blunted sword against the practice dummy strong and true.  Even in the winter, the sun is somehow fiercer in the mountains, and Dorian’s face works between exasperation and amusement as he watches the sunburn begin.  He is sitting the arbour, one shin balanced on his opposing thigh, a book cradled in his hands.  Silently, he watches as the cream of Cullen’s skin turns pinker, knowing it will darken the freckles which are strewn across Cullen’s shoulders like stars across the night sky, as he shapes his reprimands for later, knowing that Cullen will give him a rueful laugh and they will only get half-way through applying salve to the burn.

 

The mage laughs.  Even from across the crowded hall, Cullen can hear it, the bright, joyful sound.  His skin shines under the lamps in the great hall, gorgeous, darkened with long exposure to the sun.  And oh, Cullen’s mind presses forward with an image of Dorian’s face, that same face he sees now across a crowd of nobodies, but in his memory there is sweat beading on the temples, his own pale hands against the deep brown of Dorian’s skin.  He smiles slightly, expecting to feel the nervous clench in his stomach and the heat fly to his cheeks, and the smile broadens when it does not come.  Dorian’s laughter does, however, a golden shard lancing through the nameless faces, and Cullen wants him so badly that the feeling almost has a physical presence.  He sighs, and prays for it to be later.

  
Gentle fingers, lips, trace the spaces between freckles, over scars, around wounds.  Pink tongue on deep brown skin in the dim grey morning.  A loosened moan, sun-darkened hand in pale gold hair, teeth and sweat and spit and come.  The sun over the blank horizon.


	4. 'Game of Thrones Night' [no ship, unprompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to a short story by Lekosis, in which a game of Dungeons and Dragons is played. These stories saw the inception of Another Terribly Huge AU. Tags: crossover, television, friendship

Fenris will not, under any circumstances, agree to any kind of social activity on Friday nights.  Friday is Game of Thrones Night, a ritual observed by locking all of his doors, turning off the lights, and drinking most of a bottle of wine while staring with wide eyes at the screen, occasionally gasping “ _ no!” _

 

“I can’t.”

“But Fen, c’mon…”

“No.”

Hawke sighs in exasperation, and Aveline rolls her eyes.  Anders folds his arms over his chest and looks at the back of Hawke’s head with an expression which says, very loudly and clearly,  _ what did you expect _ .  “It’s like, three hours out of your life, dude.  You never want to come out with us anymore.”

 

“That’s not true.”  Fenris huffs, and folds his own arms, raising his eyebrows.  “I’ve never wanted to come out with you ever, at all.  I do, because the alternative is a phone call at three am asking me to come and pick you up, or bail you out…”

“One time, guy…”

Fenris ignores this.  “Anyway.  I could come tomorrow.  But not tonight.”

Hawke frowns for an instant, then a grin lights up his face.  “You sly dog!  You’ve got a date!”

 

Fenris shrugs.  He supposes he does, in a way.  Just as the Lannisters surely have a date with their fall from power; just as Arya Stark has a date with vengeance.  He smiles, thinking about last week’s episode - by the time it had gotten to the good bit, Arya stabbing Trant again and again, sitting astride him covered in gore, he had been perched on the edge of the sofa, mouth dry, eyes round, the neck of the bottle of wine clutched firmly in his fist, but mostly forgotten.  

 

Because it’s a ritual now, these Friday’s - home from work, feed the cat, bottle open.  His fingers used to itch for the internet, to surf fan sites until it was time for that week’s episode to begin, but now, he reads the novels instead.  He still reads slowly, but he admires the fact that after the first, they begin to branch out, have different arcs, more characters.  And really, this whole thing had been an accident - surfing channels one day several years ago, he had come across a fearsome battle.  Pausing, watching the ships in the harbour and the trebuchets gouting flames, the screams of the horses and the men, and then seeing… it had seemed to be a dwarf in charge of it all.  The scene cut to a bored looking blonde woman sitting on a high-backed chair, goblet of red wine in her hand.  He remembers he had almost changed the channel then, thinking  _ medieval fantasy bullshit _ , and then the woman looks at a scared red-haired girl beside her and sneers  _ The gods have no mercy, that's why they are gods. _  He finds, after that, that he is lost to the story, lost to the world of Westeros.  

 

So he had moved backwards from that episode, then forwards again, devouring eagerly all that had come before it - the death of the noble idiot, Ned Stark, who refused to play the game; Daenerys, her marriage to the barbarian king Drogo and the death of her power hungry brother;  Tyrion’s rise and fall and rise again.  The crippling of Bran had hurt him personally, as had the traitorous deceit of Theon Greyjoy.   He loves Asha, and Arya, and brave, lost Brienne of Tarth.  He still doesn’t know how to feel about Jaime Lannister, even all these seasons later.

 

He shakes his head, realises that Hawke is still staring at him.  The gleeful expression has fallen away, leaving confusion in its place.  “Fenris?  You alright?”

“Fine, Hawke.”  He grins, and shrugs, “It’s just that winter is coming, and I must be ready.”

“What the…”  he hears Aveline say, but he turns away, hiding his smile, and hurries home.


	5. Another Cup of Coffee [Sera x Dagna, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt for the three sentence fic meme. Tags: girls kissing, alternative universe coffee shop

“You kiss really well,” Dagna laughs, pulling back slightly from Sera’s face, brushing a strand of blonde hair over her lovers pointed ear. Sera smirks back, shakes her hair vigorously and draws Dagna closer against her in the warm booth, the smell of roasted coffee beans around them, the chatter of other patrons making the air fizz with a thousand words she cares nothing about. “You kiss okay, Widdle… could use some more practise though,” she laughs, and leans closer.


	6. 'Eternal' [Dorian x Male Lavellan; prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt on tumblr for the three sentence fic meme. It didn't turn out as a three sentence fic, this one, because my Wild Muse ran away over the fields of my imagination, and this is what I ended up with. Tags are: alternative universe (vampires), boys kissing.

Samahl’s skin is warm now.  He strokes a long fingered hand over Dorian’s side, barely touching the naked flesh, and Dorian shivers.  “You alright, mi’durgen?”  The voice is a purr, the Dalish lilt in it comforting and strangely seductive.  Dorian smiles against the narrow ribs, the moonstruck pale of the skin that covers them, feels the breath that fills the lungs, but hears no heartbeat.   _ Dead thing _ , some part of his mind whispers, and he swallows, but when Samahl says his name again, in tones as warm and rich as the furs and velvets which drape the bed, this bed, the one they share, he smiles again.  

 

“Fine, amatus.  I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“Not feelin’ weird, or faint?  Let me look at you.”

“Samahl, I’m fine, really…” But the elf has taken his wrist gently, turned the hand over so that he might examine the puncture wounds in the crook of Dorian’s elbow.  The wounds are still fresh looking, but have begun to scab, to heal.  There is virtually no bruising, despite how rough Samahl had been in his extremity.  Dorian marvels and says, “Why is that?  Why are they healing so quickly?  I always knew I was a rare specimen, but not in that department.”

 

Samahl laughs, his quiet chuckle.  “It’s not your brilliance, for once, mi’durgen.  You’re gonna hate when I tell you…”

“Oh fasta vass, what is it…”

“It’s my spit,”  Samahl says, matter of factly, then laughs.  “Oh, Dorian, I can just imagine your face!  It has some agent in it, helps stop the bleedin’.  Wouldn’t be much of a nightmare if I couldn’t come back and haunt you again, would I?”

 

Dorian sits up, allowing his hand to trail over the narrow chest, over the waist, now the hip, and then looks into Samahl’s eyes, grey into green.  “You, amatus, are not a nightmare.  You are no-one’s idea of a bad dream at all.  Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Samahl smiles sadly, and looks down.  His bare chest rises and falls like any mans, and in this moment, he seems least like what he is.  He seems alive, and vulnerable, and very young.  “I wish it were true, mi’durgen.  Fact is though, I am the horror story.  I am the reason not to stray from the path, the reason good little boys and girls don’t go out after dark.  I’m the bad thing under the bed.”

“You know,” Dorian says, as he leans in closer, skin against skin, their breath mingling, “I’m rather a bad man myself.”  He feels Samahl’s smile under his lips, the touch of fang as they kiss, and then Dorian draws back to ask, rather breathlessly, “Would you like to be bad together?”


	7. Into the Depths of Sleep [Fenris x Anders; prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From earlgreyer1's prompt 'things you said when you thought I was asleep', and she said I could choose the ship! Generous soul. So, have some Fenders.

He feels the brush of calloused fingers on his forehead, shifting sweaty hair off his brow, and feigns sleep.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Keep the shoulders relaxed, face expressionless, mouth a little open.  He feels Fenris’ weight shift slightly, tentatively beside him.  Oh, Maker.   _ Fenris. _  Fenris of all people.  Under his eyelids, Anders concentrates on calm.   It had all been… he doesn’t know.  Perhaps there is no word for it.  Fierce, yes, desperate, certainly; but there had been an undercurrent of a mutual ache that no words could ever express, an ache that each of them seemed to realise only then that the other felt as well.

 

They had not been drunk.  There was that.  It had seemed to Anders that there was almost an air of inevitability about the whole evening.  Maybe it has been in the air for some time, but tonight had been different.  Their little debate goes round and round, each of them more entrenched in their positions - is it Justice which is causing his lack of perspective?  Surely the fate of a slave is the same as the fate of a mage; or at least there is more kinship in their stories than difference.  He does not know what prompts him to say it, but when he sees the need, the hurt and bitter hope in Fenris’ eyes as he had told Anders  _ some things must be worse than slavery _ , he had responded, “Some things are worse than death.”

 

What was it in his head that made him say it?  What was it that made him see the slight flare at Fenris’ nostrils, the momentary lowering of his eyes?  What was it made him feel this cord of commonality suddenly tighten around his heart?  And yes, there is something there, something there that made Fenris follow when Anders had left, had made Anders want him there.

 

Truth is, he doesn’t know what to say now.   Easier to pretend at sleep until the elf gets bored and leaves.

 

Maybe he truly does doze off then.  It’s possible, after all - no one else has slept in this bed, here with him for a long, long time, and the comfort it offers is so sweet.  But sleep only brushes him lightly - it still seems too illicit to have a warm body next to him, cocooned together in this narrow space, to lull him into anything more deep than that.  It feels as if, at any moment, they will be pulled apart by rough hands, the gauntlets cold against soft flesh.  And there it is, when the thought arrives, there it is, oh his throat constricts at the memory, his heart scuds into a more rapid tempo, and his breath goes short, panic only moments away.  Without thinking, he wraps his arms more firmly around the body next to him, whispering softly, hardly aware of the words in his terror, “I can’t let them take you.  I won’t.”

  
And the warm body shifts, becomes Fenris again as his hands seek Anders’, there under the threadbare covers on the pallet, and he growls, his voice rough with sleep, “I’m not going anywhere.”


	8. Better Things [Dorian Pavus x Iron Bull; prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from agendercole's prompt 'things you said when you were scared', for Adoribull. I was really pleased with the way this came out - I do love writing from Bull's perspective.

_ I’m frightened _ is what he means, but it comes out all wrong.  What comes out is, “Preening again, ‘vint?”  He swings the taam-kas over his shoulder and laughs, though a part of him feels a little weird doing it.  He watches Dorian roll his eyes at his reflection in the bright pool, here on the edge of the Hinterlands.  He means to stay, perhaps needle the mage a little, try and find out what makes him tick. But damn it, he can’t help it, seeing Dorian hunched there, vulnerable, something so pitiful and proud about him as he tries to get his moustache just so makes Bull… it makes him…  _ Scared _ , a voice inside him finishes, and he drops his eyes.  He keeps walking.

 

_ I can’t do this _ is what he means, but it doesn’t sound right.  He didn’t mean for it to end up like this, it was meant to be casual.  Vashedan, it’s  _ always  _ meant to be casual, but especially in a case like Dorian’s.  He’s the enemy, after all.  Instead he says, “Come on, baby, come for me,” and Dorian moans, deep, wanton, beautiful, throws his head back, eyes closed.  Bull thrusts up a little harder, trying to lose himself in the way that the light shines across the sweat slicked skin, how the muscles inside Dorian, the heart that beats within him, the pulse in his neck and the hands that claw at his shoulders, they all could belong to anyone.  Anyone at all.   _ You know that’s not true, _ that little voice tells him again, and he thinks, without knowing it,  _ I’m lost. _

 

_ I’m terrified, _ he tries to tell Dorian once, but maybe he wouldn’t understand.  He stares into his tankard, half listening to the conversation of his men, bright and brittle like precious things.  They would be dead if he’d followed orders.  They  _ should _ be dead, if things were right.  If he were right.  He’s not, he’s broken, that’s why the Qun rejected him, that’s why he feels so cast adrift at the sudden hole in his life.  Without the Qun, what is there?  Without the Chargers, what would there be?  Dorian sits mute beside him, and when Bull looks at him slowly, there in the half light of the Herald’s Rest, he cannot help but ask, “Don’t you have some better place to be?”  

 

It’s not meant to sound like that, he has to tell someone how he feels, has to give vent to this raw loss, this deep abyssal fear within him, but that is all he has.  And Dorian looks at him, looking up into his face with those clear grey eyes and tells him, “No.  I don’t.”


	9. Open Doors [Fenris x Anders; prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous prompt from the 'things you said' series - this one is for Fenders, and it uses the prompt 'things you said that I wasn't meant to hear'. Oh, mutal pining, how I love thee.

“...and I’m tired, Maker, I’m so tired of fighting it.  Fighting him.” Who could the mage be speaking to?  It is late, so late it is really early, but they had returned from Sundermount and Fenris had yet to staunch the bleeding from the wound in his leg. It is not for lack of trying; he’d applied all his remaining poltices, bound and rebound the wound, but the gash was deep, ugly, and he knew from experience that it would get infected if he didn’t get it seen to quickly.  And where does an ex-slave get treatment?  The same place a refugee, or an apostate gets it these days in Kirkwall - Anders’ clinic.

 

It’s not his first choice, of course.  Things had been at a state of detente ever since that night.  Neither of them had spoken of it, both at pains perhaps to ignore that the event had ever taken place at all.  Fenris has tried to put it out of his mind, tried to resist the urge to recall the burnished brightness of Anders’ hair on his dirty sheets, the feel of scar and sinew under his hands.  But there really is no other option, so here he is, standing in the gloaming which is all the light the sewer ever affords, one hand resting on the door.  He’d found it ajar, and that was a wonder in itself - Anders is almost paranoid about security.  And really, who could blame him?

 

It had been Fenris who had found him that morning, after all.  The great iron door of the clinic had almost been knocked entirely off it’s hinges, and the sight that that gaping hole had exposed was enough to send Fenris’ heartbeat thrumming into his temples.  Quietly he had drawn his sword, creeping into the space; broken glass had littered the floor, pallets were overturned; too often when with Hawke’s party, scenes like these have ended in a blood bath.  But all he hears is a quiet rustle and a sob, so he takes his courage in hand and asks the empty room softly, “Mage?”

 

There was a sigh, and sniff.  And then, from behind an overturned armoire, Anders had risen; cloak torn, lip bitten, one cheek swollen and bruised, the knuckles on both hands bloodied.  His eyes are wet, red, but the look in them is fierce.  Fenris had felt his heart sink, then sing as Anders had asked him defiantly, “Come to gloat, did you?”  Perhaps that was the start of this strange dance; perhaps it was seeing the way that Anders would still defy those who sought to leash him, no matter what they did.  He does not know for sure.

 

There is silence within the clinic, then Anders resumes talking.  His voice is low, and he tells whoever he is with, “I don’t know what this could be.  I… I’m sure I’ve felt moments of…  _ something _ .  Something good.  But just as fast as I feel it, when I’m sure he feels it too, those damn walls come up again.” He sighs, and Fenris, hardly aware of it, leans forward avidly.  “We are more alike than not, Fenris and I.  We seem to want the same things.  But when did that become wanting him, wanting to see him happy, wanting to be… to be better for him?  Would he ever do that for me? I don’t know.”

 

_ I would _ , Fenris thinks, then wonders at himself.  He hears a shuffle, and Isabela’s voice floats through the vaulted space - “You won’t know unless you ask.  Life’s too short to wonder, Anders.”

And those words, so brutal, so true, they crawl along Fenris’ spine, seep into his flesh.   _ Life’s too short to wonder,  _ he thinks, and with that, he pushes open the door.


	10. Poison [Dorian Pavus x Iron Bull; prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another prompt from the 'things you said' series - this one was another anonymous one, using the phrase 'things you said that I wish you hadn't'. Shameless fluff, really, but eh... I probably have too many teeth anyway.

“Love you, kadan.”

It is nothing but poison, but it sounds so sweet.  The purr of his voice, the warm gust of air that the terrible, beautiful sentiment arrives on, it is nothing but a lie, can be nothing but loneliness and betrayal and more soul crushing guilt.  Better to nip it in the bud now.

 

But Dorian finds he can’t.  Instead those old fantasies come tripping back into his mind - far darker, more bleak and bitter than anything he’d since confessed to Bull.  These fantasies are of held hands, soft words, waking together in streaming sunlight.  Noticing the first wrinkles, seeing the first threads of grey together.  “Love you, kadan,” laughed joyfully, felt as much as heard through the expanse of Bull’s chest.  Sharing laughter, building a life around service, and love, and mutual respect.  “Love you, kadan,” whispered on cool mornings with the world outside forgotten.  But oh, it cannot be, stupid, idiotic thoughts, how could  _ this _ be?  It is a tease, a game, nothing more, these words.  These stupid, beautiful words.

 

Bull keeps saying them.  “Love you, kadan,” at the most awkward of moments.  He’s going to make Dorian believe it; perhaps that is what he wants.  Perhaps it is part of his plan.  Because there’s got to be a plan, something larger than what they are working for here.  And Bull has said himself, he’s a liar.  That’s what his name, what his true name  _ means _ after all.  He could be lying in this.  He almost certainly is.

 

But Dorian doesn’t feel it, that this is a lie. Perhaps he has not unlearned hope as thoroughly as he had thought.  “Love you, kadan,” those words, he wants with all his heart for them to be true, but knows it would be easier for him in the long run for it not to be.  “Love you, kadan,” not only blown into his ear now, but bellowed across the plains of the Hinterlands, muttered in the quiet confines of their tent, written on a scrap of paper stuffed into the book he’s reading.  Under the tide, Dorian’s doubt begins to wane.  “Love you, kadan,” becomes his sunlight, his hope for the future, his prayer.  It becomes more; it becomes his everything.  Until finally, one day, he returns them.

  
“I love you, amatus.”


	11. Oh, So Quiet [Dorian Pavus x Iron Bull: prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grimark on tumblr prompted me with the line 'things you said too quietly', with a request for adoribull. I... may have gone a bit too adorable on it... but still.

“I’m fine.  Truly.”

It doesn’t sound right.  It’s too loud, for one thing, too certain.  But Bull isn’t the one who’s asked, so he cannot be the one to clarify; and he doesn’t think Dorian would look kindly on it anyway, it being such a public setting.  He’s learning.  Learning to be cautious, learning not to push too hard.  Dorian’s real good at being stubborn on a couple of points, and this might just be one of them.  So Bull stays his tongue, watching as Dorian smiles winningly at the Boss, watching the shift from foot to foot, the fact he doesn’t engage in any of the rest of the conversation.  This is important. This is the way Dorian speaks most clearly to Bull - through his body, the way his eyes flick from one surface, one face, to the next.  He can’t lie to Bull this way.

 

But Bull can only watch.  It’s a long trek back from Redcliffe, and on the surface, Dorian  _ is _ fine.  He laughs, he jibes at Bull, he ticks all the right boxes.  But he fights harder than normal - and that is saying something, because Dorian  _ always _ fights hard.  Bull has to hand it to him, he’s got the passion, even if he’s got no head for tactics to match it.  Might have to remedy that someday, if the ‘vint likes his head where it is.

 

Yes, he fights harder, and laughs longer, and speaks much too loudly.  But Bull doesn’t push, waiting, watching, looking for a hint of what might be bugging him.  He knows that Dorian went to meet family in Redcliffe; Leliana hasn’t bothered keeping that level of correspondence from him, and neither has the Boss.  Bull had thought Dorian might be leaving their party, that he might be going with whoever the Pavus was that had shown up.  But no.  Now Dorian is this too-bright thing, this mirror turned facing out, reflecting light like armour would a sword.  It’s not right.

 

His opportunity comes when they are in the foothills of the Frostbacks, just beginning their ascent toward Skyhold.  The Boss has set them watches, of course, and it just so happens that Dorian is taking over after Bull, just before sun up.  Bull is sharpening his taam kas in the pre-dawn light, the fire almost embers at his feet, as Dorian stumbles over to the log he is sitting on and sits, yawning.  Bull smiles.

“Hey,” he greets the mage, who only moans.  Bulls smile widens, and he says nothing, continues to sharpen the blade.

 

“Not even dawn,” Dorian mutters finally, and sighs.

“Yeah,” Bull agrees, and lets the silence grow, giving Dorian some space to wake up.  Dorian rubs his eyes, and sighs again, then looks at Bull.

“Why do I have the distinct impression that you’ve been going easy on me these last few days?”

Bull chuckles, then asks, “What made you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian says airily, then flicks his fingers at the fire, which curls and grows.  Bull shifts in his seat a little, and Dorian says, “Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be.  Been meaning to get it going again for a while.”  There is a pause, where the suns rays begin to creep over the horizon, turning the horizon pink and gold.  “I kinda got the idea you might need it.  A little space.  You haven’t seemed right, the last few days.”

 

“Oh.  You noticed, did you?”  Dorian takes a deep breath and sighs again.  There is silence again, and then Dorian resumes, his voice low, hollow, “You’re right.  It’s easier to push people away from the questions they want to ask, if they think nothing’s wrong.”  Bull hears tears in Dorian’s voice, and continues sharpening the blade, the thin scrape of whetstone on metal bright in the still-chilly air.  He doesn’t look at Dorian as Dorian continues, still in that low, lonely voice.  “But I… I don’t want to cause a bother.  You don’t need to worry about me.”

  
Bull nods.  The words are quiet, and the words beneath them -  _ I don’t want this to hurt more than it already does, so please don’t ask, please just love me, love me in silence _ \- are quieter still.  “I know,” Bull tells him, as the sun crests the horizon finally, and a new day begins.  “I don’t need to.  I want to.”


	12. Smash and Grab [Fenris x Anders, anonymous prompt]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a 'meet ugly' prompt on tumblr where Character A gets drunk and breaks into Character B's house, "but my cat seems to like you, so I guess you can stay." The requester requested Fenders for the pairing.

There is a crash downstairs, and Fenris’ eyes fly open immediately. His fists clench, and before he is even aware of it, he’s out of bed, striding across the room, flinging open the door. “Oops,” he hears in a voice he does not recognise, and then a high pitched, nervous giggle. “Hawke? Hawke! C’mon, Hawkey, the healer…” a loud hiccup, “needs healing. Ooh! Hello, kitty! Where did you come from?”

Fenris slows his pace. Thats my cat, you bastard, he thinks, and his fist clenches once more. But he is not so far gone in his rage and confusion that he misses the happy chirrup! noise that the little black cat makes. It only makes that sound when it’s being stroked under the chin, and he can almost see the pointed face in his minds eye, with its look of smug satisfaction. Stupid animal! he thinks, you’re meant to have at least scratched whoever that is by now. “Good kitty,” the voice slurs happily, “Who’s a very good kitty? And when did you come to live with Hawke? I thought he had a nasty old doggie, yes I did! And who’s an old silly… oh. Oh shit. Kitty,” the voice whispers, “Kitty, this isn’t Hawke’s house, is it?”

“No,” Fenris says loudly, as he enters the room. “No, it isn’t.”  
“Shit,” the human sitting on his kitchen floor says, scrambling to his feet. He doesn’t quite make it, and sits back down heavily, staring up at Fenris in the moonlight pouring from the skylight. “Shit,” the man repeats, “I’m so sorry, guy, I’ll… look, I’ll pay for the window, I’m so sorry, so, so sorry…”  
“You might think you’re sorry,” Fenris says, lowering his voice to a threatening growl, advancing on the human with his fists clenched, “But when I’m finished with you you’ll be really sorry.”

“Oh shit,” the human groans again, and covers his face, making no move to protect himself. His hair catches the moonlight strangely, shining palely in the waxing moonlight, and Fenris pauses. In the moment of his hesitation, the little black cat winds its way around the humans long legs, and then peers up at Fenris, uttering that strange little chirrup! again. Fenris clenches his jaw and growls, “Get out of the way.”

The cat only stares at him, eyes growing balefully up at him. It then hisses softly, and its hackles raise. Fenris glares at it in surprise, and mutters, “You traitor. He broke in, and you’re protecting him?”  
The cat sits down, still looking at Fenris. They stare at each other for a moment longer, and then Fenris shakes his head in disgust. “Fine,” he says to the cat, “But I’m blaming you if he’s secretly an ax murderer.”

He backs off a pace, and then becomes aware that the human is peeking at him from between his fingers. “Does… does that mean you’re not going to beat me up? I… I am sorry.”  
“Yes. I know. And… perhaps I overreacted.” Fenris sighs, and holds out his hand to the human, “Come on. Get up.”  
The human takes his hand, and Fenris hauls him up. The man sways slightly, and rubs his head, then grins ruefully. “What a night. I’m so sorry for this, honestly, I’ll pay for the window…”  
Fenris flaps his hand. “It’s alright.” He looks at the human carefully, and narrows his eyes. “You… look as if you could use a cup of coffee.”  
“No. I mean, yes, I could, but really, I should let you get to sleep again. Maker, I’m…”  
“So sorry, I know, you said. But….” The human is… not good-looking, not precisely, but he has a strangely comforting presence, even knowing next to nothing about him. Fenris finds himself curious about this man, this man who has the trust of his cat so readily, when the thorny little bastard was skitish for weeks after Fenris bought him home from the shelter. He sighs and continues, “But I can’t let you go like this. At least have a cup of coffee.” He gestures down at the cat, still winding it’s way around the human’s ankles, “It seems you have at least one fan in the house.”

The human smiles, a true, lovely smile. He nods, and looks down at the cat, then sharply back at Fenris. “Alright. That… that would be really nice. And…” He looks a little nervous, then puts out his hand, “My name’s Anders.”  
Fenris sighs. “Go and sit down. Over there,” he gestures to the stools on the other side of the kitchen counter. He watches Anders go, and smiles. “I’ll make the coffee, and you tell me your cat whispering secrets.”  
Anders seats himself gingerly and smiles. “Sounds like a good deal.”


	13. Welcome to the World [Anders/Justice, unprompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Done for 'Justice Day' for the Anders Appreciation Week on Tumblr this year (2016). I based this one off the dialogue in Awakenings when Justice is asking Anders about why he doesn't fight for wider mage rights, and Anders says that apathy is the nature of society. "Welcome to the world, spirit" is the line that inspired the beginning of this little piece.

He had laughed it off, at the time.  Responded with a glib comment,  _ that’s how the world is _ or  _ welcome to the world _ or something like that.  But it had stayed with him, weighed heavy, Justice’s comment;  _ this is not right _ . 

 

There are a lot of things that aren’t right about this.  Dead people for one thing.  Dead people shouldn’t be able to make you feel this way; annoyed, and stupid, and yes, there it is, the guilt.  It’s not that he wouldn’t have bought others along, if it had been possible.  But half the time it wasn’t possible to keep himself from getting caught, let alone someone else.  And he wouldn’t have that on his conscience.  No.  If anyone wanted to follow him they would have to take their own chances, take their own risks.  He had.  He’d survived.   _ Barely _ , a traitorous part of his mind whispers, and he pushes the thought aside, instead focussing on stripping off the light Warden armour and readying himself for sleep.  But as he spirals down, into the depths, those words echo again:  _ this is not right. _

 

He awakes again, in the Fade.  Not Kinloch this time, thank the Maker - this is the kitchen of his parents house.  Though now, he sees, parts of it are more shadow than anything, a sure sign that his mind is slowly losing these memories.  He smiles ruefully from his position on the floor, looking down at the little wooden animal his father had carved for him.  A strange light blooms at the edge of his vision, and he looks up, startled, and stares at the shape in front of him.  Then raises his eyebrow.  “Oh,” he says to the spirit, “It’s you.”

 

Justice is silent for a moment, then says, slowly, “Yes.  It is I.”  He looks very different here - Anders has become so used to the corpse that he inhabits that it seems very strange to see Justice’s true form.  A long moment of quiet where they look at each other and then Anders tilts his head.  “Did you want something?  Only I’m trying to dream here…”

“You summoned me.”  Justice stares back, its expression unreadable.  Anders shakes his head, feels the roughness of the little wooden toy under his hand.  Justice nods, however, and then says, “This is not right.”

 

“Oh.  That.”  Anders takes a deep breath, then lets it out again.  “I… didn’t mean to.  I suppose I was just thinking about it, before I went to sleep.  Is that how it works?”  He smiles curiously, and asks, “I can just think about you, and you’ll show up?  That’s handy.”

“No,” Justice says, “It does not usually work in that way.  But,” and the spirit cocks his head, seems to narrow his eyes at Anders, “But I feel a kinship with you, and perhaps that is part of it.  Perhaps that is why you feel guilt now.”

Anders starts, then frowns.  “You can…”

“I am Justice,” the spirit reminds him, and almost seems to smile, “I know guilt.”

 

“Stands to reason, I suppose,” Anders sighs, and looks at the toy.  “I don’t owe you an explanation of why I’ve acted as I have.  But… but you have made me think.  And the other day, what you said about apathy…”

“Apathy is everywhere.  It is, I am coming to believe, as much a part of your world as rain, or fire.  The apathy of the mundane toward the treatment of mages is only one aspect; the treatment of elves by the human majority, the casting out and permanent marking of the Casteless is another.  Where there is power, there are those seeking to protect their portion of it.  And where there is power, there is fear, and injustice.”  Justice speaks without evident emotion, though Anders feels his words strike a chord, deep within him.  “So what can I do?” he asks bitterly, “I can’t keep myself free, let alone anyone else.  And these big ideas - justice, freedom, I mean, what’s the point?  What’s the point to any of this?”

 

Justice is silent for a long time.  Finally, quietly, he says, “I do not want your guilt, Anders.  Or your shame.  I feel it there, under your words; but I sense that you would do much and more if you were able, if you felt it would be right.  That you have thought on my words, that they have provoked this reaction in you, speaks highly of your capacity for seeking that which is right, for yourself and for your fellows.  It is what comes after thought that interests me, however - will your freedom, your life with the Wardens, will that be the justice you seek?  Or will you think more, and then act towards what is right for all your fellows?”  Justice takes a step forward, kneels on the illusion of the kitchen floor opposite Anders, looking at him intently.  “Action.  That is what speaks in your world.  Act, and I will aid you.  Act, and I will be there.”

  
Slowly, the light of the spirit fades.  Anders blinks, bites his lip.  He feels strange; but also strangely buoyant, supported.  He smiles.   _ I will be there _ , he thinks, and slips deeper, down into true sleep.


	14. Breakable [no ship, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a request from dorianpink/accidental, from an alphabetised prompt list - one of those 'send me a character and a letter and I'll write something' somethings. The prompt was 'broken glass' for Fenris.

It seems like all he can do, some nights. The air is heavy, and it sits on his shoulders, in his lungs, like guilt, like deadweight.  And the house is so silent that the silence almost has a noise of its own, high, throbbing, vast silence and here in the dark there is only him, him and the ghosts, him and the corpses, the only living thing in a dead sea, adrift.  So he breaks these bottles, one by one, the stink of the wine drowning the smell of rotting flesh, the huge crash of the glass as it breaks killing the silence.  It gives him something to do; because waiting, waiting for death or capture or freedom, it is hard.  Harder than he'd expected. 


	15. Scared of the Dark [no ship, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another 'send me a letter and a character and I'll write you a thing' thing. This one's prompt was 'under cover of darkness', and it's about Zevran, for Six_Lily_Petals

If the blood is red in the light, it is black in the darkness.  Black, black, everything is black; the blood, the supple leather of his gloves, the clouds rolling above the Antiva City skyline.   _ Rain coming _ , he thinks, as the man under his hand and blade stiffens, then goes limp. Zevran hears the gouts of hot blood hit the cobblestones, hard and fast at first, then slowing to a drip. It does not move him.  The man he allows to fall from his grasp is a messenger of one of the minor noble Houses - large of fortune but new of name and influence.  Zevran sighs, attends his blade, then collects a small square of parchment from inside the man’s left sleeve.  It does not matter who the man is, or not to him - but the whole point of assassination, of course, is that the death matters to someone.  But really, all men must die, and better to die swiftly at the hands of a talented young Crow than the slow agony of illness.   _ At least, that is your opinion,  _ he tells himself,  _ perhaps rethink when you've experienced your own death. _  He chuckles, and slides back, into the cover afforded by the alleyway, back into the dark.


	16. The Waiting Room [no ship; prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one of the 'send me a letter and I'll write you a thing' things - earlgreyer1 asked for J, which is 'when words aren't enough'... and I got to chose the character, but I don't think I'll be allowed to do that again because I angsted this one pretty hard. TAGS: canonical character death, family feels

“She’s gone.”

 

That’s all he hears.  He knows the doctor keeps moving his mouth, keeps talking, but once those words are out, Hawke doesn’t hear anything else.  Not Carver’s rage, not Gamlen’s broken sobbing.  He doesn’t know what Anders says to him, only nods.  Fenris stares down at him, still seated in the vinyl covered armchair in the private room off the emergency waiting area, a room that silently screams  _ bad news _ just by its decor.  Hawke watches Carver, now pacing, hands in his hair, and then looks at Fenris’ outstretched hand.  He looks back down at his own hands, balled uselessly on his knees, thinks to himself,  _ She’s gone, mum’s gone, she’s gone _ , and shakes his head.

  
He feels as if he stays that way for a long time, not crying, not doing anything, just existing.   _ She’s gone _ , he thinks again, and then blinks.  He rises, slowly, and it is like a diver reaching cautiously for the surface, knowing if he goes too fast it will kill him.  Finally, he looks up.  “Carv?” he asks, and his voice cracks on the word, but Carver stops his pacing and looks at him.  Just a look, nothing more, but it tells Hawke more than any words ever could.  Their mother really is gone, dead, and there is nothing that either of them can do about it.  The are lost.   _ She’s gone _ , he tries to say, but nothing comes.  It feels like it never will again.


	17. What I've Known [Dorian x Lavellan: prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from tumblr, more of these lovely 'send me a song' ones. This one was for sixlilypetals, who requested something written around a Lavellan inquisitor and Dorian, for the song 'The Unforgiven' by Metallica. YAAAAAY!

He swallows down the wine and grimaces.  The dregs are bitter, and they make his mouth taste bloody.  The upper floor of the Herald’s Rest is almost empty; Sera had pounded up the stairs a few minutes ago, yelling downstairs to someone, laughing, and then her gaze had met his and she’d sobered, stilled, then turned and fled.   _Nice to know I haven’t lost my hard earned status of local pariah_ , Dorian thinks, and pours himself a new glass of wine.  Two days since their return from Redcliffe.  Three days since he’d spoken with his Father, and six since the arrival of the now famous letter.  Since their return, he has not been to the Inquisitor’s quarters, has seen him only briefly in the Great Hall, and has declined an invitation to attend a jaunt to the Western Approach.  But it’s not that he’s been avoiding the Inquisitor, certainly not.  It’s just that seeing Samahl sends a fresh gust of shame blowing through him, not unlike the frigid mountain wind which swirls and howls around the eves of the old building, and it turns all their burgeoning… whatever this might be, it turns it all to dust. 

It hadn’t been that bad, at first, he thinks, taking a mouthful of wine and swallowing quickly.  His father, in inimitable style, had looked well, at least, though tired.   _Very tired,_ he thinks, and rubs a hand over his cheek.  He registers that his cheek is rough with stubble, and makes a moué of distaste.  But then, all this talk of going home - and to what end?  To wait three months, six at the outside, and then have them try again?  He shudders; never, never again.  He knows the rules of the game well; form a marriage alliance, provide an heir, play the game.  But by playing, for all he stands to win, he stands to lose far more.   _No,_ he vows, _they can take everything else, but they can’t take my mind.  They won’t._

He is more than halfway to being drunk when another person sits down across the table from him.  He raises his eyes from the scarred surface and blinks owlishly as Samahl smiles.  “Mi’durgen,” he says in that soft, slightly lilting accent, and Dorian swallows.  “Sera told me you were here.  I came as soon as I could.  I hope you don’t mind a little company?”

“Of course not,” Dorian says quickly, and smiles.  It feels false, brittle, so he bites his lips together and then tries again.  Samahl’s nostrils flare slightly and he narrows his eyes.  “Mi’durgen,” he says quietly, “What happened in Redcliffe…”

“It makes no matter, Inquisitor.  Never fear.  I will not be shuffling north any time in the near future, you can be assured of that.”  He smirks and swirls the contents of his glass, “I would rather not rob you of the light of my presence just yet.”

Samahl smiles, tight, tense.  Oh Maker, Dorian thinks, as his stomach twists, Don’t smile at me like that.  Don’t smile at me like you care.  Don’t make it so that I cannot bear to have you leave me.  Don’t do that, amatus.  Not now.  Please.  But he smiles back, and inclines his head, takes a drink.  “Was there something you wanted, Inquisitor?  Specifically?  Aside from my magnificent presence, I mean?”

 

Slowly, the smile slides from Samahl’s face, and he regards Dorian seriously.  “Dorian,” he says quietly, and Dorian’s heart sinks at the use of his first name.  Samahl had taken to addressing him as _mi’durgen_ , the Dalish word for diamond, as a mimicry of Varric’s name for him - Sparkler.  But now, this _Dorian_ , spoken quietly, gravely, it turns his blood to ice in his veins.  “Dorian,” Samahl repeats, and his hand comes across the table, gropes for Dorian’s, holds it steady, warm.  He sighs.  “I can’t pretend to know exactly what this feels like for you.  And I won’t.  But…”  He bites his lip, stares hard at the table for a moment, then raises his bright violet eyes to Dorian and shakes his head.  “Don’t listen to anyone who tells you to forgive him.  I know it’s what the Chantry says, I know he’s your da’, I know you remember times when it probably wasn’t like this between the two of you.”  He grips Dorian’s hand harder, and says fiercely, “But anyone who tries to change who you are to suit their ends, don’t let ‘em.  Don’t let ‘em do it, Dorian.”  He pauses, and he swallows hard.  “I love you.  This doesn’t change anything about that.  Y’know,” and he laughs, shakily, “What I seen of shems up to this point, none of it was good.  But I seen the good in them now.  Through you.  I feel it, I know it.  That’s all I wanted to say.”

 

He goes to release Dorian’s hand, but Dorian clutches it.  He is… he doesn’t know. _He loves me,_ he thinks, and he shakes his head.  He doesn’t know anything for sure any more, but he knows the feel of Samahl’s hand in his is real, he sees the light in his eyes - he trusts it.  And that, perhaps, is all he really needs to know.


	18. First Bite [No ship; prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another of the little 'give me a letter and a character and I'll write you a thing' things. This one was for Dancer (karikatiora on Tumblr) and is the first of four requested. This one is for Meredith, and the prompt is 'a deafening sound'.

She thinks she used to love it here, but now the walls bleed sound, the very earth under the red stone sings.  The sound is bright, too bright to bear, ever present, so loud she cannot think, so deep and all encompassing she cannot hear.  She remembers nothing of how she came about this bright sword, this doom.  Perhaps it was a gift; perhaps Andraste herself reached out Her hand and gave it to her.  Either option seems likely.  Resonant, high and deafening, the song cries out to her, morning and night.  Nothing else matters now.  Only the song, and what it tells her to do.  


	19. Second Bite [no ship; prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second of Dancer's prompts from the letter/character meme on Tumblr: this one is for a Hawke sibling (which wasn't specified), and the prompt was 'on the edge of consciousness'. (Tagged for blood, angst)

This is it.  The pain, Maker, the pain is huge, here, and here, and no, it hurts to breathe.  Black on the edge of their vision; black in the tunnel, black like the blood.  A mouth opens in the dark, a mutter, “Stay, oh Maker, please stay, Anders, can…”  That voice.  That same voice shouting in a child’s game, telling them  _ Mother says it’s time to come in. _  It seems so familiar, but so far away.  One last breath, close the eyes.  “Stay with me, stay with me, Maker damn it,” the voice tells them, a grip on the shoulders, tight.   _ It’s alright _ , they try to say,  _ I’m fine.  I’m going home. _

  
This body, it is so heavy, and it only weighs them down.  It’s pulled, pushed, and then someone with a gentle voice says, “Here.  Drink this, love.  Nothing burns like the first cup, but it’s better than where you’re headed.” Warm fingers open their mouth; a dry earthen cup is held to their lips.  Thick liquid, oh, no it stinks, stinks of  _ death _ , but it pours into their mouth, they drink.  Choke once, again, and the liquid pours down, a fire lit in their throat, they try to cry out, and then the demon!  The demon is there, it speaks in a high, lilting voice, gorgeous and cruel and then the darkness prevails over all.  


	20. Under Moonlight [Fenris x Anders x Hawke, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for anonfruit-makeup on tumblr, who requested a fic as part of a funny little thing that I called 'I wish for fic' - people would leave messages in my inbox beginning with "I wish you would write a fic where..." Because I'm crap at writing down headcanons, and would rather write stories anyway, that's what I did.
> 
> So anyway, the wish was for a fic where "...Cole assures Fenris and Anders that Hawke loves them"

It is late; the mountain moonlight is crisp, cruel in the way it picks out every line on Anders’ face, every scar on Fenris’ hands and arms.  The room is silent - still no news of Hawke.  It has been two weeks now, and still nothing.  They had shown up unannounced, early in the morning.  Skyhold had barely been stirring, but Varric had been out, and close to the gates, thank the Maker.  The way he had looked at them had spoken volumes - then, Hawke had been overdue, along with the Inquisitor’s party, for three days.  But that was then. This is now.

So they wait.  Anders is at the desk, writing, the scratch of his quill on the parchment loud in the quiet room.  Fenris is ostensibly reading, until he hears a low murmur from outside the room and his eyes slide away from the sentence he as read and re-read as he thinks about Hawke.  He concentrates on the sound, then in one smooth, quiet movement, he is off the bed, reaching for the short dagger on the table, and striding across the room.

 

Anders looks up sharply, following Fenris’ movements with his eyes.  He frowns, concerned, curious, and then his head tilts as he listens as well.  His eyes narrow, then flash blue, and Justice tells Fenris, “Wait.”

Fenris wrinkles his nose, shakes his head: _no_.  He shifts the grip on the dagger and his other hand goes to the handle.  Justice gets up, tells Fenris as he walks forward, “Wait. This presence is known to me.”

Fenris frowns, taken aback.  In the pause which follows, Justice puts one hand on the door, listening intently, then smiles.  “Compassion.  Enter freely.”  He pulls the door open, Fenris stepping neatly aside, and there before them is a wan boy, slight, his pale grey eyes large, luminous under his hat.  “You need help,” the boy tells them, and puts out one hand, palm extended.  Fenris looks at Justice, sees Anders’ bright gold eyes staring at him confusedly, and says, rather more crossly than he had intended, “We do not.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Anders says, “You must be mistaken.  But perhaps… I feel like… do I know you from somewhere?”

The boy shakes his head, hand still outstretched.  “Watching, waiting, wondering; this night, or tomorrow, or never again?  You wait for him, wait and wonder, but he’s bright, bright in the green, and he’s coming back, he’s coming for you, to you, because he’ll never let you go.  He loves you both deep, and wide; more deep than the roads under earth, more wide than the Waking Sea. He’s coming back, he’s fighting now, but he’s coming back.  Don’t lose hope.  He loves you, intertwined, beautiful.”  The boy smiles weakly, cocks his head and sighs.  “I… I tried to help.  I made the hurting harder, I think.” 

 

Fenris cannot speak for a moment; his guts twist.   _Hawke?_  he thinks, and wonders who this is, how he could know.  He looks at Anders, sees his eyes shining with tears, and then Anders reaches out, taking the strange boy in his arms, holding him close.  “No.  No, you didn’t.  Thank you.  Thank you so much.”


	21. Fear and Loathing in Kirkwall [Fenris x m!Hawke, unprompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eh, sometimes these things happen. You read a thing, you [see a thing](http://atticoflonelymadman.tumblr.com/post/129781523766/fear-and-loathing-in-kirkwall)... self-indulgent mock-fic comes out. You know how it goes.

They were somewhere around Sundermount on the edge of the wasteland, when the drugs began to take hold. Hawke remembered saying something like, “I feel a bit lightheaded. Maybe you should drive…” when suddenly there was a terrible roar all around them and the sky went dark with the wingspan of the dragon as it flew overhead, screaming. Hawke watched it wheel in mid-air, turning with a horrible grace, and then it was swooping low over the tarmac, maw open, heading straight for them as they barrelled down the highway with the top down toward Kirkwall. And a voice was screaming, “Andraste’s Arse! What is that Maker-damned animal?”

Then it was quiet again. Hawke’s attorney had taken his shirt off, the lyrium lines carved into his flesh standing stark on his brown skin. He poured wine into his cupped hand, slurped it up and asked, “What in the Void are you yelling about?” as he stared out the windshield, eyes obscured by wrap-around Antivan sunglasses. “Never mind,” Hawke told him, “It’s your turn to drive.” There was no point mentioning the dragon, he considered. The poor bastard would see it soon enough.


	22. Unspoken [Varric x Blackwall, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for athos, for the 'send me a number and a pairing and I'll write you a drabble' thing. The prompt for this was 'I swear it was an accident'. Tags are: friendship, accidents, memories

The sun is warm, and Varric yawns contentedly.  Much better.  Nothing to do, nowhere in particular to go - a guy could get used to this.  He stretches his legs out in front of himself, and leans back against the wall.  The warmth of the stones through his shirt is soothing, and he tilts his head back, closing his eyes and smiling.  Good.  That’s good.  It’s another couple of days until Hawke gets here, and honestly, he’ll be pleased to get that shit over and done with.  So will Hawke, no doubt.  If he can just get Cassandra off his back for…

 

Something collides with his ankles, and there is a loud expletive and a crash, then a clatter.  Varric’s eyes fly open at the sudden pain, and he pulls his legs back toward himself, sitting up straight, blinded momentarily by the sudden light.  He looks down and sees a human, on his hands and knees among a pile of what looks like firewood.  The man hisses, looking at the palms of his hands, and then looks up at Varric and mumbles, “Sorry, I’m sorry.  Wasn’t looking where I was going.”  

 

It takes him a second, but then Varric shakes his head and grins, “Don’t sweat it, Hero.  That’s why I got two legs, right?  In case one of them gets fucked up, then I’ve always got a spare.”  His ankles hurt, they hurt like hell, both of them, but he’s damned if he’s not going to try to catch the man a little off guard.   There’s something about him. And anyway, it was intended as a joke, his comment, a way of allieviating any embarrassment that Blackwall may have felt.  However, Blackwall only frowns, and looks deeply thoughtful. Internally, Varric groans.   _ He really is like Sebastian, no bloody sense of humour _ .  He sighs and rises.  “Come on.  I’ll help you pick this lot up.  Where’re you taking it, anyway?”

 

“The stables,” Blackwall tells him, and looks in that direction, struggling to his feet.  Figures.  Blackwall always seems to be making something.  “Well, come on then,” Varric says, and bends down, starting to pick up the wood.  “So, got any plans for this stuff?”

 

Blackwall huffs, then bends, beginning to pick up the wood as well.  “Not really.  Thought I might make a little horse or something.  Something… maybe for a gift.”

Varric smiles, picks up another piece of wood.  “Well, you’ve got enough wood here to give presents to everyone in the place, by the looks of things.”  Blackwall doesn’t respond however, and Varric looks up at him, wondering.  As Blackwall bends for the last piece, Varric is struck by the pensiveness of his expression, and he asks, “Hey.  What’s up?”

 

Blackwalls only shakes his head, but Varric sees the way he clutches the pile of wood in his arms a little closer, the way his eyes dart up, up to the main keep.  Varric frowns, still wondering, and as they begin walking over to the stables, he begins mentally scrolling through a list of possibilities.  Blackwall is a pretty dark horse, but Varric’s known for a long time that there are secrets that Blackwall’s keeping.  And hey, everyone’s got their secrets but… well.  He sighs sadly, remembering the way the sewers had smelt, the feel of the grainy saltpetre between his fingers.  Secrets.  He’s had enough of them for a lifetime, he feels.  So he takes a breath and says as quietly as he can, “C’mon.  What are you looking up there for?  Trust me, nothing you tell me is gonna seem novel.  I’ve lived in Kirkwall, remember?  Weird was like, a daily occurance.  So?  Spill it.”

 

Blackwall sighs and shakes his head, then bends slightly and allows the wood to tumble from his arms.  “It’s nothing.  Really.  Probably me… misreading.  Getting above my station.  She’s…”  He clears his throat as Varric raises his eyebrows and smiles slightly.  Then Blackwall’s voice goes gruff and formal, and he says, “Thank you.  For the help.  And… I’m sorry.  Again.  I swear, it was…”

“It was an accident.”  Varric flaps his hand, and sighs through his nose.  So, Blackwall has a crush on someone who he doesn’t think would want him.  Not Dorian, clearly; Vivienne?  He’d have to be a sucker for punishment - she really doesn’t seem to like him.  If not her, then who?  Leiliana?  No, she doesn’t seem his type.  Huh.  Interesting.  He smiles again, and drops his own, smaller, stack of wood.  He dusts off his hands and says, “Well, shit.  There was no permanent damage, so we’re good on that score.  Just… pay a bit more attention in future, alright?  And… Hero?”  

 

Blackwall frowns down at him, his eyes somehow sad.  Varric smiles openly and spreads his hands wide as he tells the man, “If there’s someone you fancy, better to talk to ‘em than try to do the whole woo-ing thing, in my opinion.  Time is short.  Don’t keep that sort of thing hidden.  I’ve written my share of romance novels, and pining might sell, but it’s fairly shitty in real life.  Take it from someone who knows.”  He sighs, shakes his head and begins to turn when Blackwall says, “Varric?”

 

Varric turns, cocks his head, and Blackwall stares at him seriously for a second before saying, “Thank you.  That’s… that’s good advice.”  

“Think nothing of it, Hero.  Just your friendly neighbourhood sage and novelist, ready to expound the virtues of leaping into love.”  He chuckles, and indicates his ankle, “But if you want to share a name, you do owe me one.”  He laughs a little at Blackwall’s expression, and turns and walks back out, into the sunshine.


	23. Slide [Fenris x Anders, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the same list as the previous chapter, earlgreyer prompted me a 'five', which was where character A performs a striptease for character B. This is less striptease, more boylesque, but still - I just couldn't see Anders not putting a little odd comedy into his routine. Oh, and the song he's dancing to is ['Wanna Be Yours'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4NGoS330HE) by the Arctic Monkeys.

The music rolls and throbs, a slow, seductive beat.  Anders swallows, then closes his eyes, feeling the rhythm of the music as it crowds into the warm summer air of their bedroom. He can feel Fenris’ eyes on him, feel the deep, coiling lust of the moment.  He puts his hands up, undoing the remaining buttons - one, two, three, in time with the beat - and then pulls the shirt apart, shrugging it off his shoulders.   _ I wanna be your vaccuum cleaner, breathin’ in your dust _ , begins the song, and Anders hears Fenris snort a laugh.  He opens his eyes, turning slowly to smile coyly at Fenris, perched with his hands underneath his thighs on the edge of the bed.  

 

One step, two steps, closer.  His breathing quickens, and he pulls the thin cotton of his shirt down further as he halts, legs spread, hips slowly moving, swaying in front of Fenris.  It’s been a long time since he’s done this, and the scrutiny is delightful, he’d forgotten how good it feels to be watched like this.  It makes him feel… powerful, perfect.  He smiles, holding Fenris’ gaze and slides the shirt off further, down his arms, exposing his chest.  He sees Fenris’ throat work as the lyrics  _ secrets I have held in my heart, are harder to hide than I thought _ , slide by, and he drops the shirt over his wrists, tugging it off, hips still moving, swaying gently.  Idly, he smooths hands over his chest, his stomach, dips his hips a little lower.  Fenris strains forward slightly, and Anders sees the muscles in his jaw clench.  He plays to it, lowering his eyelids, running just the tips of his fingers over himself, feeling the tremble of desire as it courses through his veins, under his skin.  

  
Raising his eyes to Fenris’ face again, Anders toys with the button of his fly, opening it slowly, hips still rolling, his whole body moving sinuously now to the music.   _ I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours _ , moans the voice, and Anders chuckles and turns again, just before he slides the zipper down.  He hears Fenris grunt behind him, and slides his hands along his sides, onto his hips underneath his pants.  Slowly, achingly slowly, he pushes them off his hips, the grey slacks slipping down, onto the rise of his ass.  Arching his hips back, Anders allows his head to loll backward, hair hanging down his back.  Fenris sighs impatiently, and Anders smiles to himself, pushes the fabric down a little further, bringing his underwear as well.  He stops the motion of both hips and hands when the music cuts out for a second, and Fenris growls.  “Patience,” Anders murmurs, and the music comes back in,  _ secrets I have held in my heart, are harder to hide than I thought _ , and he turns, bridges that final gap to stand so close to Fenris he can feel the heat pouring from him, see the beads of sweat at his hairline, see the bulge of his cock limned clearly through his pants.   _ I just wanna be yours, I wanna be yours, _ and Anders mouths the words silently, pushing his trousers further down, slowly, slowly, exposing more of himself, until finally, he pushes them all the way off.  Fenris’ nostrils flare.  He’s panting, his mouth open, Anders sees it, sees the raw want on Fenris’ face.  So, naked, Anders steps from his clothes, straddling Fenris’ hips as the song quietly closes, a final ring of guitar fading into the hot air.  The sheets are cool under his legs, and as Fenris’ mouth and hands roam restlessly over his skin, Anders smiles to himself.   _ Powerful, perfect _ , he thinks, and his heart sings.


	24. Any Port in a Storm [Fenris x Anders, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, this is from the same semi-nsfw prompt list, prompted by calligraphypenn. This prompt was 'being drenched while wearing white'. The only new tag I can think of for this one is pining...

Fenris stands at the window, watching the darkening sky.  Rain tonight, almost certainly.  Even the air smells pent up, thick with the gathering storm.  Below, far below in the city, people scurry about, performing their last tasks for the day, trying to get home before the storm arrives.  Traffic is heavy, though he cannot hear much of the blaring of horns - he is too far up.  He puts a hand out, meaning to pull the heavy drape across the window, when a bright flash of lightning streaks over the sky, followed almost immediately by a huge booming roll of thunder.  The window shakes, he feels the whole apartment seem to vibrate with it, and then the rain comes down hard.  

 

He hears the drops pounding on the fire escape outside, the hard drops battering against the metal railings, and he elects to leave the curtains open, smiling at the suddenness, the viciousness of the storm.  The room feels a little desolate, and he cannot but feel stifled, shut in.  The rain outside seems to amplify how dull the inside world is, a deep well of some unspecified dissatisfaction that he cannot put a name to.

 

The lightning flashes again, and then the thunder rumbles - still just as close.  The summer storms of Kirkwall can be devastating while they last, often flooding low lying suburbs like Darktown.  He huffs a breath, walks to the stereo and switches it on, sending a low burble of ambient noise humming through the apartment.  Then he crosses to the bookshelf to stand in front of it, hand poised, eyes roving over the spines.  There aren’t that many yet - but in between the public library sale and Varric ‘leaving’ books at his place every time they play cards, it’s filling up.  He frowns, unable to see the volume he’s after, and then looks at the door when the buzzer goes.

 

The sound comes again, a stacatto rhythm, harsh and urgent.  Fenris cocks his head, briefly debates ignoring it, and then curiosity overcomes him.  He depresses the button and says, “Speak.”

“Thank the Maker, you’re in.  Fen, it’s raining cats and dogs out here,” says a familiar voice, and Fenris scowls. “Please, can I come up?  Just until it stops?”

Fenris sighs, lifts his finger to turn off the intercom, then after a moment’s hesitation, presses the door release.  As he waits, he pads to the bathroom, retrieving two towels - no way will he have the mage drip on his floor.  He returns to lean against the kitchen counter, hugging the towels to his chest.  Stupid Anders.  Of all the people he knows,  _ of course _ he’d be the one to get caught in the rain.  He was probably doing some dumb thing, something like an extra shift when he’s been looking exhausted for weeks now; doesn’t he realise that people rely on him to be at his best?  Ridiculous.  Ridiculous man.

 

There is a soft knock, and Fenris strides forward, his mouth set in a line of disapproval.  There is another flash, another loud boom seconds later, and then he is hauling open the door.  “You were already wet, why didn’t you just…” he begins and then stops.  Anders is there, his hair flat against his head, rainwater dripping from the point of his nose and puddling at his feet.  His white button up shirt is soaked through, and Fenris has to blink, finding himself momentarily lost for words at the way it clings to Anders flesh.  It’s not like he’d never noticed Anders in that way before; it’s just hard to remain focussed on that side of things when the man is just so insufferably… well…  _ selfless _ .  Irritatingly so - so passionate, he drives himself harder than anyone else of Fenris’ acquaintance, and it’s just… just...  He takes a breath, sighs it out, and silently hands Anders one of the towels.  Biting his lip, he turns his gaze away and says, “I hope you know you’re not coming in here like that.”

 

“Um… thanks?”  Anders says, and rubs the towel first over his face, then his hair.  Fenris feels his gaze drawn back to the way Anders muscles slide under the skin to which that white fabric sticks, Maker, he knows he is staring but seems powerless to stop.  “Man, I’m sorry about this,” Anders says from under the towel, “I was on my way back from the clinic, and then it just started pissing down.  I was only in it for about five seconds, then I got under the shelter of your building and I thought, what the hell, I’ll ask… uh…”  Fenris tears his gaze from Anders’ chest, and sees the bright amber eyes looking at him, puzzled.  “Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” Fenris says and holds out his hand for the towel.  “You’ll drip on the carpet if you come in like that.  Here,” he says, flinging the second towel to Anders, hoping his nonchalance isn’t as painful to watch as it is to force, “Take off your clothes and I’ll put them in the drier.”

“Oh, no, it’s really fine.  I just need to…”

“Don’t be an idiot.  You can’t sit around in wet clothes.  You’ll catch cold.”  Fenris frowns and says blithely, “And you’ll get the sofa wet.”

 

Anders laughs a little and shrugs, “With unfaltering logic like that, how can I argue.  Um… you’re not going to make me strip and like… lock me out or anything are you?”

Fenris shakes his head slowly, and averts his eyes again.  “Quickly.  I don’t need the neighbours seeing a naked man on my doorstep.”

“Maker, alright,” Anders says quietly, and there is an uncomfortable quiet as Anders strips.  Fenris is holding out the towel, and when he feels Anders take it, he chances a quick glance.  The other man’s hair is standing up in tufts, half dried, and Fenris can’t help observing the pattern of freckles over Anders’ shoulders.   _ This is how he looks when he comes out of the shower _ , he thinks to himself, and then wonders where the thought has come from.  He swallows as Anders finishes tucking the towel around his waist, and stoops to collect the pile of his sodden clothing from the floor.  “I’ll take that,” Fenris tells him, more gruffly than he’d intended, and Anders hands the pile over silently.  

 

Together, they cross the threshold, each in their bare feet.  “Wait here,” Fenris says, then goes into the little cupboard which serves as his laundry, and shoves the pile of clothes into the drier.  He sets the dials, pushes the button to start the thing and closes the cupboard.  When he returns to the open plan living area, Anders is still standing, just inside the door, his arms clasped around himself, shoulders hunched.  Fenris bites his lip, scowls at the man, then shakes his head.  “Wait,” he says again, and walks quickly to his bedroom, pulling the blanket from the end of his bed and hurrying back through to the kitchen.  

 

He crosses the room, unfolding the blanket as he does.  “Here,” he says, and draws the soft fabric around Anders’ shoulders, holding it closed over his chest until Anders holds it himself.  Anders frowns at him and says, “Hey, I’m sorry, I know I’m being a total inconvenience.  You don’t…”

“I know I don’t.  And… and you’re not a  _ total _ inconvenience.”  Fenris rolls his eyes and steps back, out of Anders’ space.  They stare at each other for a moment, then Fenris glances out of the window.  

 

He grunts, then turns back to look at Anders.  “Looks like it’s setting in for the night.  Do you…”  He swallows, shifts from foot to foot and then makes himself look at Anders.  “You know, you’re welcome to stay.  Until the rain stops, I mean.”

Anders cocks his head, and nods, slowly.  “That would be really nice.  If… if I’m not, you know, in the way…”

Fenris shakes his head, begins moving to the kitchen.  “No,” he says, “No, you’re not in the way.  Not at all.”


	25. Nights, in Red and Black [Zevran x Warden, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from an anonymous song prompt for the song ['And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZqN1glz4JY). Tags for this one include: blood and nightmares

Rinna turns and turns, dancing in the sunlight, laughing.  Her bare legs gleam under the water, and she laughs again, splashing at him, her rough undershirt soaked through.  Zevran laughs himself, wades deeper into the water, going to her, meaning to take her in his arms.  He marvels at her - the bright sound of her voice, the joy in her expression.  She pauses, looking at him and he smiles; the heat in her gaze is breathtaking, still astonishes him after all this time.  He takes her waist, fingers meeting the wet fabric, warmed by her skin and the sun.  He watches her face as she smiles at him, murmurs something he does not catch.  As he leans closer to hear her, he sees the sun playing on her hair, the soft light making her eyes sparkle and dance, and then she is doubled over, bleeding, looking at him in accusation, and he hears her name on his lips, the blood in the water is red, it’s so red and he can’t no, he loved her he loves her but his hands are covered with it, the blood, it’s in the water, the water and Rinna, she’s slipping under, out of his grip and shes and and he

 

Zevran struggles up into the warm air of the tent.  Dazed with sleep, deeply unsettled by his dream, he touches the canvas wall of the little structure; the one he now shares with his lover.  The mark who spared his life; the Warden who trusted him enough to bring him to their side; the one he now holds more dear than anything else in the world.  The canvas is rough under his palm, his fingertips, and it serves to ground him, bring him back to reality, away from Rinna’s dying gaze.  He swallows, takes a deep lungful of the close air, and glances at the sleeping figure next to him as if for reassurance.  Theron.  As he watches that now familiar face, there in the dim light which filters through the canvas, Theron’s face shifts, and he murmurs something which sounds like “...light the beacon.”

 

Zevran waits.  He watches, as Theron’s face works, and he shifts his head quickly to the left and mutters, “No, no…swords...”

“Theron,” Zevran murmurs, and puts his hand lightly on the other elf’s forehead, stroking a hand over his hair, “Theron, you are dreaming.  Wake up, mi amor, it is just a…”

Theron’s breathing hitches, and he gasps, bringing his hands up, “...too many! ...the walls!” He struggles, striking out at Zevran, who pulls his hands back quickly and says, trying to be quiet, reassuring, though his heart is hammering, “Theron, Theron, it’s a dream, wake up, mi amor, despertarse, mi amor…”

 

His heart is in his mouth as Theron thrashes, kicking off the furs, and gasps again, crying out inarticulately.  Zevran’s hands fly to Theron - clutching his arms, holding onto his shoulders as he whispers desperately, “Theron, Theron!  Por favor, Theron!”  Once more Theron bucks beneath him, and he utters one last, shuddering groan.  Zevran sees the tears slide out from under Theron’s lashes, and then his eyes are open, he’s looking at Zevran, looking for all the world as if he has been given a repreive at the executioners block.  “Zevran,” he murmurs, “Oh, Creators, I…”

“Shhh, mi amor,” Zevran murmurs, and he kisses Theron’s cheeks, tears wet under his lips against Theron’s skin.  “It was just a dream.”

Theron grips his back, holding him tight.  “But they were everywhere.  They  _ are _ everywhere.  I’ll never be free of it, Zev, Ostagar, Lothering, they’re everywhere…  _ Tamlen _ , oh Creators, I can’t, I can’t…”  He sobs once, a racking, terrible noise, and Zevran holds him tighter.  

“Shhh, Theron,” Zevran whispers, and there is a fierceness that he does not expect in his tone when he says, “You are not alone.  You are  _ never _ alone.  I am here.  I am here.”


	26. Phantoms [Krem x Cole (sorta), prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another song prompt, this time for the Mystery Skulls song [Ghosts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YlEb3L1PIco).

Singing

Singing downstairs and it

 

                                     it hurts a little.  Cole pauses, breathes as he’s been told to do.  In.  Out again.  In, and out again, regular, repeating.  He remembers Varric

_                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          [warm hand, her hands are warm they smell of wine she can’t talk properly.  he wants to ask her mother? mother do you still?  but he doesn’t dare.  he knows she does, knows it deep down. bartrand says different but what does he know?  nothing, less than nothing] _

                                                                                                                                  telling him to breathe, his voice low, quiet.  Cole likes listening to him, he talks to Cole differently than the others do.  They’re frightened of him, some of them.  Some think he’s a demon.  Some are too curious, thinking he will unlock great secrets for them.  But he can say what he means without them understanding.  There is that at least.

 

He puts down the last of the crumbs for the mice and listens to the voices downstairs again.  It’s easy to pick them out.  There is the Iron Bull

_                                                                                                                                                                                                              [dusty bright all around.  the little dead thing, there in his hand.  he’d only wanted to see how it worked; what made it the way it was.  but now it’s broken, and the shadow falls over him.  ashkari, why did you do it?  he tells her the truth - he wanted to know.] _

                                                                                                         his voice loud, bright.  He’s not frightened of Cole, not any more.  The thought makes Cole want to hold himself steady, there in the half-dark as he listens.  There is the not-Mage

_                                                                                                                        [get out you’re no good to us, go on, get out] _

                                                                                                                                                                                          and the Healer

_                                                                                                                                                                                                                  [one more drink then I’ll ask her what if she says what if] _

                                               and the rest of them.  And then, there is him.  

 

Cole concentrates, focusses in, until the one voice is all he hears.  Oh, he knows there are more around - more voices, singing in the tavern, weeping quietly on the ramparts, laughing in the kitchens, dreaming in the dungeons.  But this one voice, it is as if - as if the singer is singing for all the times he has been lost, to make up for it now he is found.  Like he is singing for all the times he couldn’t.  It hurts, but not in a bad way.  Some of it’s old, some of it’s bad, these memories

_ [aclassi! rings the cry and he tries to run but he can’t get out he can’t get out one of them has him around the neck oh Maker he’s he can’t run he can’t he can’t go home there is no home anymore no one will help him now no] _

                                                       but it’s only around the edges, and it serves to make the centre brighter.  It is this centre which sings.

 

Cole swallows, wants to be closer.  He wants to make the hurting stop, but wonders if he might make the centre somehow more fragile if he did.  There is something in the resonance of that light, something there that another part of him recognises, feels deeply familiar.  So he walks downstairs slowly, toward the sound of the singing, knowing that he is not seen.  The woman carrying two tankards on a tray

_                                                                                                           [that’s twice he’s looked at me now well i never] _

                                                                                                                                                                                 brushes him without glancing at him, and a tall man in a strange mask

_                                  [if they put one more toe out of line it’ll be a i’ll wring their i’ll give them a] _

                                                                                                                                              almost slams into him, but wheels away at the last moment.  Cole approaches their table, where they all sit, tankards in hand, singing their song.  It’s a song about them, Cole knows, but more than them too - the idea of them.  They sing away the loneliness, and the horror of what they do; they sing away their pasts, sing for a future that nobody wants to give them.  But they sing together, and that is what is important.   _ this is not kindness, to take this from him _ , Compassion whispers, and Cole nods.  He knows this; deep in his marrow, he knows it.  Hurting is hard; but hurting also hardens, shapes, gives new form and fresh hope.  Hurting is important, sometimes.  Cole smiles at the man, cocks his head as the man grins across the table and raises his tankard higher, his cheeks flushed.  Tentatively, Cole reaches out, runs his hand through the air next to the man’s head, and gasps.  The brightness swells within him, and it is more beautiful than he could have hoped for.  Compassion sings, a lilting, joyful song, as the Chargers raise their voices higher.


	27. Much and More [Fenris x Anders]

There is no moonlight down here in Darktown, and it smells _disgusting_.  Fenris shifts, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all.  Could he really presume, after some clumsy fumbling in the alley behind the Hanged Man, and several conversations laden with innuendo that this would be something the mage would want?  A shuffle from outside, and he tenses under the scratchy sheets - too late to wonder now.  

 

As he enters the clinic, Anders sighs tiredly, and the door clangs closed behind him.  A scrape of bolts, and then the mage moves lightly into the dark quarters.  For a moment, there is nothing, and then a tiny flame flares.  Fenris swallows - from the way Anders is holding his hand, he can see that the flame is balanced on his palm.  Anders turns, moving toward a shelf on the far side, then suddenly, Fenris can wait no longer and says, as seductively as he can manage without feeling too stupid, “Hello, mage.”

 

“Andraste’s Flaming Knickers!” Anders yelps and takes two steps backward, palm with the flame outstretched.  Fenris can see nothing, the light of the flame is too bright, and then Anders lowers his hand and says, “Don’t do that!  I might have bloody fireballed you, you idiot!”

“Indeed,” Fenris says dryly.  “I thought I would impose my presence on you, for a change.  See how you like it.”

 

“Huh.  I only did that once - I tripped on a _corpse_ , remember? And you have the nerve to call this place revolting.  Last time I pay you a surprise visit.”  Fenris can only see Anders by his outline, though he can imagine the expression on his face.  Still, his voice is drawn, and something within Fenris twists in concern.  He blinks in the bright glare of the flame and asks, “Don’t you have a candle?”

 

“A cand… oh.  Sorry.  Yes, mustn’t be magicky in my own home,” Anders grumbles, but he walks off, around a corner of the clinic where Fenris cannot see.   _It’s not that, it’s not your magic,_  he wants to tell Anders - and then smiles slightly, wondering how he would tell the mage that it was simply because he could not see his face with the light in his eyes.  Fenris sighs and sits up in the bed, allowing the covers to slip from his bare chest, and cocks his head, listening to Anders fossicking.  Finally, Anders returns with a candle already lit - Fenris watches the light approaching.  But as he rounds the corner back into the space Fenris occupies, Anders stops and asks, “Is… uh… is there a reason you seem to be… naked?  In my bed?”

 

“I would have thought that was obvious.  But if you do not wish it, then I can go.”  Fenris attempts levity, but he sees from the look on Anders’ face that he has failed, and he feels his shoulders slump, just a little.  “I… I am sorry.  I… only wished to…”  But he doesn’t know.  He had wanted to provide some comfort, some small relief, and had clearly gone about it in completely the wrong way.  “This was a mistake,” he says, and pushes the blankets off his legs, swinging them out of the cot and beginning to rise, “I will…”

 

“No, no wait, that… I’m sorry.  I… that came out badly.”  Anders stands awkwardly for a moment, then walks forward and kneels by the side of the cot, tipping the candle so the wax runs out, onto the bare floor.  Then he balances the stub in the hot wax and holds it, waiting for the wax to harden.  In the time it takes him to do this, Fenris studies him; the pale, sickly cast of his skin - the bedraggled state of his hair and clothes.  He frowns for a moment, then, without really considering the import of his actions, kneels down next to Anders on the floor.  The stone is freezing under his feet, his bare knees, but for that moment he does not care - he puts one palm against Anders’ cheek, turning his face gently toward him.  He sees Anders swallow, his lips part as if he is about to say something, but when nothing comes, Fenris asks him gently, “I will go if you wish it.”

 

Anders blinks.  His gaze flicks down, over Fenris’ naked body.  Then he shakes his head slightly, and takes a deep breath in.  “I… I don’t think I’ll be much company tonight.  I haven’t been good for much lately.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Fenris tells him, “If anything, you have probably been far too good.  Probably to everyone... except yourself.”

Anders snorts and rolls his eyes, but the pink flush on his ears and the curl of his lip does not escape Fenris.  Fenris looks at the mage, _his_ mage, and strokes his cheek gently, curling his fingers underneath Anders’ jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble, watching the shadow of Anders’ lashes flicker on his cheeks.  “There’s a lot to do,” Anders murmurs, and puts his hand over Fenris’, arresting its motion, “There’s so much to do and… there isn’t much time.”

 

“Simply because there is much and more to do, it does not mean you should be the one to do it all.  Come.  Please.”  

He stands slowly, Anders rising with him.  Fenris puts his hands gently on Anders’ chest, hands going to the three buckles which hold the ragged cloak around his shoulders.  He looks at Anders, asking silently, and waits until Anders nods.  Slowly, he undoes the fastenings, removes the cloak, then repeats the procedure - the touch of the fastenings, the look, the wait for the nod - with every piece of clothing until Anders stands before him, bare.  Gently, slowly, Fenris leans forward, touches his lips to Anders’ shoulder.  By touch, he knows every plane and ridge on this body before him, and yet it affects him every time - the way that each caress is greeted with a sigh both sad and satisfied, the slow and lovely smiles he can elicit from this beautiful man.  “Please,” he mutters into Anders’ neck, pulling him closer, pulling him down on to the makeshift little cot.  “Please.  Come to bed and let me love you.  There is much and more to do, but not tonight.  Please.”


	28. Distant Lights [Iron Bull x Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags which apply: lyrium addiction & withdrawal symptoms, hurt comfort
> 
> Written for the ever-charming sixlilypetals on Tumblr, who is an utter sweetheart. The request was to write something in the vein of the Ben Folds' song _The Luckiest_ which is a lovely song that I'd not heard before. It also references one of the Qunari children's stories from the World of Thedas v.2.

Bull’s hands are warm under his arms, and Cullen sags heavily in his grip.  “Hey,” Bull says, “Don’t go too quick now.  You’re doing good, kid.”

“Ngh,” Cullen says and struggles to get his legs under himself.  They don’t seem to be functioning properly, but he tries again.  And again.  And again.  Bull grunts, pulls him up higher, then mutters, “Gonna have to lift you, Cullen.”

 

It scares him how thoroughly he knows - he needs this.  Thank the Maker the yard is almost deserted.  He’d exhausted himself yet again, pushed himself to the brink of collapse, hitting the straw men as if they’d been responsible for the shaking in his hands, the queasy roll of his guts, the nightmares.  And he’d thought that that was alright, that he could cope.  He’d coped before.  He’d had to.  But as he’d dragged himself from the training dummies to the stairs leading to his quarters, he’d felt all the strength go out of his legs.  And he’d fallen, unable even to raise his arms to protect his face.  The lyrium has taken everything else, why wouldn’t it take his dignity too?  He feels his chest constrict, there in Bull’s arms, head cradled gently against Bull’s skin, listening to the thump of his heartbeat.

 

Bull turns around, pushing the door to Cullen’s office open with his back.  He carries Cullen to the one chair, there by the dying fire, and places him gently into it.  For a moment, he hovers over Cullen, peering into his face, expression thoughtful.  Then he squats, wincing slightly, and looks at Cullen again before saying, “I’ll stay.  Long as you need.”

 

Cullen blinks at him, feeling breathless.  He tries to frame a response, tries to shake his head, but something in him will not allow it.  He wants this, wants it desperately.  Cassandra had tried, had done her damnest to be there for him; but ultimately, their relationship was too strained, was too steeped in the traditions of Seeker and Templar.  Dorian too had tried - and while the chess and the banter was a pleasant enough distraction, it was too fleeting to be much use.  

 

And Maker, how he  _ hates _ to feel so useless.  He hates pushing these people away, hates that through his own actions, through his own choice, he has bought this on them.  It would be easier to simply take the lyrium again.  He swallows, desperate, and in a cracked voice, says, “I’m sorry, Bull.”

Bull looks at him and smiles.  “What for?  You fell.  I helped.  Hey, you wanna hear a story?  I mean, I’m no Varric, but… I got a few.”

 

Cullen smiles weakly, suppresses a shiver, and nods.  He tucks his hands under his armpits, waiting, trying to warm himself.  Bull grins, scratches underneath one horn and rises, walking to the fire.  He kneels again before it and while he busies himself with it, he speaks.  “It’s not a Chargers’ one, for a change.  I know you probably heard all of those a while back.  This is a truth in fiction, one that I heard when I was just a little kid.  So, there was this kid, right?  And it wandered off into a real deep forest.  It walked for hours, didn’t see nothing apart from trees and forest type shit.  Eventually, the kid comes to this like, temple, right?  And there’s an altar and all that, and underneath, carved in the stone, is the words  _ Seek the light and there, find safety in me _ .”

 

Bull sighs, stripping sticks and laying them carefully into the embers of the fire.  Greedily, the little flames lick at the wood, slowly at first, building.   He clears his throat, watching the fire for a moment, and then resumes.  “Kid says to itself, “Shit”... uh, well, it doesn’t say shit but it says… ‘Oh wow, this is a sign from a god!’  Not ‘cause it was dumb, it just was… unfinished.  Hadn’t thought about it real good.  So the storm passes, and the kid comes out of the temple, and there, just through the trees, it sees a light.  ‘I’m gonna follow that light,’ the kid decides, right there and then, ‘’cause that’s what it said on the stone.  The god told me to do it, and I’m gonna.’  So off it goes, through the wood.  But it didn’t know that it was just following a wisp… and that kid was never seen again.”

 

The fire crackles, and warmth ripples up the front of Cullen’s body.  Somehow, it soothes him, though it feels as if it will be a long time before it reaches his bones.  The silence grows between them, and Cullen opens his mouth, draws breath, and though his eyelids are falling heavy, he asks, “Am I the child?  In your story? I feel as if I am.  Following wisps.  Wanting the lie to be true.”

The Iron Bull turns away from the fire, regards him quietly for a moment, then shakes his head.  The movement is slow, thoughtful.  “Nah,” Bull says finally, “You’re not the kid.  You could have been.  You still could be, I guess.  But you’re lucky, Cullen. You’ve got some things that kid didn’t have.”

 

“Yes?” Cullen says, and his voice is not much more than a murmur.  The room blurs, and he closes his eyes, too tired now to keep them open.  “And what’s that?”

“You thought about your course of action real good.  You didn’t make the decision to get off the lyrium quickly - you saw it needed to be done, and you’re doing it.  That ain’t the lucky bit though.  You got people around you that care.  People enough to tell you what’s a wisp, what’s a lie; you need us, we’ll be there.”  Bull’s voice is no more than an echo now, and as Cullen slips over the border into sleep, he is sure he hears Bull say, “I’ll be there.”


	29. In the Bones [Fenris x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a beautiful fool, I listened to this song, [Hexes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVvx_2wWGUA) (by Bassnectar, featuring Chino Moreno), from one of un-shit-yourself's playlists. And then promptly had Feelings (tm), and decided to write this thing. So, USY, it's for you, and I blame you entirely.
> 
> Tags are: hurt/comfort, chronic pain, medical procedures (sorta), and healing.

“Do you think you’re ready?”

 

No, he’s not ready.  He will never stop being afraid of this, but he won’t stop wanting it either.  Ever since he’d met Anders, ever since he’d noticed the effect that his presence had on him, he had wanted it.  He feels sick with it, sick and desperate and overwhelmed.  He blows a breath out of his nose and says, “Do it then.”

 

Anders looks doubtful just for a moment, then narrows his eyes.  “I can’t.  Or rather, I won’t.  Not until you tell me that it’s what you want.  And that, what you just gave me?  That’s not an answer.”

“What do you think?” Fenris snarls in return, his toes curling against the cold stone.  “I am not  _ ready _ , I am  _ desperate _ .  Otherwise I would not be here, would I?

He shifts a little on the bed, and looks at his hands, the fingers interlocked.  The pain, an ever present force within him, it is beginning to reassert itself from the dull ache which Anders’ presence seems to nullify it into.  His nervousness - ha, that’s not it, what he feels isn’t nerves, it’s  _ terror _ , plain and simple - is stoking the rolling arc of pain into the pure, white-hot agony which was the legacy of Danarius’ experimentation.  He takes a deep breath and looks up, into Anders’ eyes, then looks back down again.  “What if it does not work?” he whispers.

 

Anders is silent for a moment, kneeling on the floor in front of him, then his hand reaches out to hover over Fenris’.  He hears Anders sigh, then mutter, “May I touch you?”

Fenris nods.  Anders hand descends slowly, then rests on top of Fenris’ tightly clenched fingers.  And at once, the pain in his hands, both of them, dissolves.  Fenris inhales sharply, and looks up once more, sees Anders looking at him seriously.  “I can’t promise it’s going to work.  Honestly, it’s a fucked up proposition, even I can see that.  And believe me, I know fucked up propositions.”  He sighs again and tries to smile, “But even if we know that it buys you relief, some level of reprieve when it’s at it’s worst, then…”  He shrugs, “Look.  I’m not going to make you do anything.  You have the most ferocious will of almost anyone I’ve met - the fact that you’ve already dealt for years with this kind of chronic pain is… astonishing, frankly.”  He pauses, takes a deep breath.  “And I know that for you to come to me, to ask me for help… that’s…”  

 

The clinic is silent as Anders tails off.  Fenris watches as he looks askance, swallows, then he looks back at Fenris and his expression has changed, is more guarded than before.  “I’m not going to make you do anything,” Anders repeats firmly, “And since I can’t claim to be an expert at anything to do with the entropic school, it might be not even work.  And there’s something else you really should know.  I mean, I know we talked a little about this already… but… some of this involves hexes.  They’re used to hurt people, usually.  But the more I consider it, and after what happened… you know.... what happened with… the girl…”  Anders grits his teeth and continues, “Anything can be used to hurt people. That doesn’t mean it can’t be used for good too.”  

 

Fenris clenches his jaw.  “As I understand it,” he says, his voice low, “You will use this… hex… to induce unconsciousness.  A state of deep sleep.  And then you will attempt to draw the lyrium closer to the surface of my skin.  You seem to believe that the proximity of the lyrium to my bones is what causes the pain.”

Anders nods, and rubs his eye.  “Yes, the kind of pain you’ve described is quite common to some of the other patients I’ve had here.”  He sighs and tells Fenris, “The lyrium addicts.  They have to sink pretty low to seek me out; but mostly it’s the same kind of chronic pain as you’re experiencing, though theirs seems to have a psychosomatic element… anyway.”  Anders draws a deep breath and sighs, shaking his head.  “The important part is that you’re as comfortable as you can be with what I’ll do during the procedure.  You could even have someone else here if you thought that might help, someone you trusted?  It’s important that you feel safe.  As safe as you can, anyway.”

 

Anders speaks kindly, quietly, and Fenris takes a deep breath. “You have already explained, or attempted to explain, past my ability to understand it.  I know what I need to about what you plan to do.  And as I said, I am desperate to be rid of this - I cannot wait any longer.  My comfort is immaterial at this point, but…”  He pauses, unsure of how to phrase it, and finally, he has to settle for the only words he knows are true, “I thank you for considering it, and…” Another pause, where he bites his lips together, then squeezes Anders’ hand, “I trust you.”

Fenris looks at Anders, narrowing his eyes.  Anders blinks back at him from his crouch on the floor at his feet; to Fenris, he looks worried, almost ill with tension.  “I appreciate that,” Anders tells him, “But I need to be very clear on this - while I am fairly certain this will not make things worse, I can’t guarantee…”

“I know,” Fenris says, and nods once, firmly.  “I know the risk.  But I would like to try.  I want you to try.  Please.”


	30. In Circles [Cullen x Samson, unprompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Dragon Age Alternate Pair Week 2016 on Tumblr. Tagged: lyrium addiction, hurt/no comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just tidying a few shorter stories across to this collection - don't mind me...

He sees the man, sitting there on the waterfront, and hardens his heart.  He knows what he must do.  

 

The sight is not unusual in Kirkwall these days - there are beggars everywhere, even six years after the Blight ended, even after all the City Guard’s attempt to clean up the city. The harsh sun beats down on it all - reflecting off the surface of the polluted bay, off the bright paste gems of the prostitute plying her trade with the sailors and dock workers, off the steel of armour and sword.  Even after the Viscount had unleashed a veritable ream of useless paper, laws and bylaws and writs and ordinances against the vice and ugliness that the unwashed hordes bring with them.  Refugees.  Apostates.  And now, lyrium addicts.

 

It’s not Meredith’s fault.  He knows, or thinks he knows, what she is trying to do, and he applauds her for it.  Certainly, her methods might leave something to be desired, but Cullen supposes it is his own failings - he is too soft, too cautious - which make the methods she employs seem unpalatable.  She wants to clear the Order of the kind of sympathies which Samson had embodied, give it a chance to rise again, to become a trusted bastion of light against the chaos and darkness of uncontrolled magic.  That’s all.  And is that not what he wants too?  

 

Some days, he doesn’t know.   _Weak, weak_ , he chastises himself, and thanks the Maker Raleigh is gone.  And yet… there is still some part of him which questions if Raleigh was not perhaps his better half, the side which validated the instinct to treat their charges less as prisoners, more as people with hopes, and fears, and dreams.  Perhaps that is what keeps him coming back.

 

Cullen hasn’t patrolled in a long time.  He knew he could not keep up the charade of coming to the docks unobserved - there are too many people who frequent them, too many Templars buying flesh, too many eyes to see him and Raleigh together.  So today, he patrols with two recruits, loyal men, good.  As Raleigh looks up, Cullen narrows his eyes, pretending to confidence which he does not feel.  How could he, when those grey-green eyes, once so sharp, so intelligent and thoughtful, are now obscured by need and nothing more?  Raleigh smiles slightly, then staggers to his feet, lurching toward where Cullen and the two recruits are walking.  

 

“Len,” he rasps, “Len, oh Maker, I thought it was you, hey, hey, could you…”

“Do you know this man, Knight Captain?” the Templar at his side asks abruptly, and Cullen clenches his jaw.  

“Once.  Once, I did.”  He turns to the recruit and tells him, “Continue patrolling to Darktown.  Then recon back via the Alienage.  Report to Mettin when you arrive back.  Tell him to deliver his report to me when I return.”

 

“Yes, Knight Captain,” the Templars salute, and turn away.  Cullen listens to the clank of their armoured boots as they walk, his eyes fixed on Samson.  The sea rolls against the pilings of the dock, and Cullen waits still, each of them caught in the others gaze.  “Samson,” Cullen says finally, as he withdraws the two phials, “Lee. This is the last time.”

The response from Samson is immediate, “No, no, Len, please, please… don’t do this to me, I just…”

Cullen silences him with a wave of his hand.  Samson’s eyes follow the small phials of lyrium in Cullen’s hand, and he licks his lips.  Cullen pauses then gives them to Samson, who takes them quickly.  “I can’t,” Cullen tells him, “They’re watching the rationing now, and every time, it’s…”  He pauses, shakes his head.  “It’s too much risk.”

 

“Risk?”  Samson laughs incredulously, and then looks at Cullen, his eyes raw, red, “So… you’re just gonna leave me here?  You’re gonna leave me here to die?”  His look is wild, and he steps toward Cullen quickly, hands going to the chest plate of Cullen’s armour, dirty hands sliding over the ensign of the Holy Sword. “Len, c’mon, come on,” Samson pauses, nostrils flaring and eyes ablaze as he growls, “I’ll… I’ll suck your cock, c’mon, you always liked that, you can… Maker, you can do whatever you want with me, to me, just… just don’t take the blue away, Len, it’s all I got, Len, please.”  He drops his hands, begins fumbling at the skirts of Cullen’s uniform, pulling on them, and groans in appeal, “Please. I’ll do whatever you want.”

 

“Maker’s Breath, Lee,” Cullen steps back, disgusted with himself as images and sensations rise behind his eyes - Samson’s mouth on him, the hot sluice of spit, the slide of tongue and teeth and lips on his cock, the heat, the feel of Samson’s hands on his thighs, the seafoam taste of him, the sweat in the red light of the candle in their room, all the world outside of it dead, gone.  He swallows, clenching his jaw again, and pushes Samson away roughly, so roughly he falls down.  

“Do not lay your hands on me again,” Cullen says loudly, barely looking at Samson so as not to see the way the tears streak the dirt on his cheeks, the way his face is distorted with bitterness, need. “Stay away from me.  The Maker guide you, brother.”

 

“Brother, you call me.  You’re leaving me to die here, and you’ve got the nerve to call me that.”  Samson’s voice shakes with terrible accusation as he says, “You’re no brother of mine.  Take your sentiment and shove it, you bastard.”

  
Cullen stops, turned to stone by those words, the horrible finality of them.  Then he turns, walking stiffly away from the docks, away from the cheap sparkle of the sea, away from what he wanted and could not, would not, bring himself to reach for.  Samson’s future, his fate - it is now his own affair.


	31. A Momentary Lapse [no pairing, unprompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another written for DA Alternative Pairing Week 2016, over on Tumblr. This one... doesn't really have a pairing, but it is sort of written on a premise of Cullen knowing Anders' voice. Tags include: Mages and Templars, Escape attempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of me tidying up my Ao3 account...

“...blood everywhere,” Carroll sighs.  “I suppose I should be used to it by now.”

Cullen nods.  He doesn’t think he’d ever get used to a Harrowing, let alone when they go bad.  He doesn’t know for sure though - he’s only sat in on one so far, and that was trying enough.  He shudders, unable to shake the mental image of the girl sobbing on the stone floor.  “It was so beautiful,” she’d kept repeating, “so beautiful, and I could almost _taste_ it.”  The way she’d touched her lips…  Cullen swallows, hard, around the lump in his throat.   _And not a girl_ , he reminds himself, _just a mage_.  Just as he is now a Templar.

 

At least, he will be.  Soon.  His vigil is in a week, and he feels… what?  Excited?  Yes, certainly.  It’s been so long, such a lot of work, first in Honnleath, now at Kinloch.  Maker, even getting them to take him seriously was work - he was just some farm kid to them, some little boy with knightly fancies.    And now… _one week to go,_  he thinks, and even as his stomach pitches with nervousness, he smiles.  Taking a deep breath, he walks a little taller, in between the two others.  Patrolling, the older Templars had griped, was ninety percent of the job; still, everything is novel and bright to Cullen’s eyes, and he is sure that the Maker is smiling on his course.

 

This other guy though - he seems strange.  He’s walking about with his visor down, for one thing, and Cullen can see the nervous glances that some of the younger apprentices are throwing in his direction.  One of them cups his hand around his mouth, whispering to his fellow, and they titter together.  Cullen frowns.  It’s not befitting to the uniform, to the Order, to be made a fool of.  Looking more closely at the strange Templar, Cullen notices his greaves are loose, the straps cinched in so tight around his forearms that the straps trail.  That’s just sloppy; he needs to see the Quartermaster, get some new ones that fit.  Then suddenly, the man laughs from behind the visor, and says in a familiar voice, “Yeah.  Those mages.  Nothing but trouble.  They never think of the clean up crew when they have the nerve to fail their Harrowing.  Though I blame the demons, personally.”

 

Cullen’s frown deepens.  The voice seems familiar, but out of context, almost as he’s used to hearing it, but not under these circumstances.  Cullen looks at Carroll, who appears not to have heard.  “Right chaps,” the voice continues, and still Cullen cannot place it, “I’m off-duty now. Goodbye!”

 

The last word is shrill, almost nervous. _Very strange_ , Cullen thinks, wondering if he should ask who the man is, ask him to take his visor down at least.  But Carroll outranks him significantly, and surely if he’s not worried then… Cullen shrugs mentally, watching the uniform skirts swish as the strange Templar walks quickly away.  Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Cullen asks, “Who was that?”

 

Carroll looks at him blankly, as if he’s been disturbed from a reverie.  “I thought you knew him.  Thought he was one of the recruits.  I don’t know… he did seem familiar though.”  Carroll’s eyes grow worried, and then the concern slides out of them to be replaced by a look of blank hopefulness.  “Do you know when the next dose is?” he asks, and Cullen shakes his head.  Carroll smiles at him dully and turns them up a different corridor.  Echoing back to him, Cullen hears a far-off door slam and thinks nothing of it.


	32. Warmth [Fenris x Anders x m!Hawke], unprompted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for one of those polyamory prompts on tumblr, this one involved Disney movies, hot chocolate and snow outside. Tagged for polyamory, comfort, fluff.

“Ow, stop  _ pulling _ it,” Anders moans, and Taliesin sighs.  

“Yeah, yeah,” he says and tousles the rough braid out of the copper strands.  It looked pretty shit anyway - he hadn’t braided anyone’s hair in years, not since Bethany was little, and the lack of practice hadn’t improved his skill.  He looks over the top of Anders’ head to the window - still snowing.  “Bloody freezing today,” he says, and adjusts his legs around Anders’ hips.  They’re sitting on the sofa, the radio muttering in the background.  He smiles, and runs his hands over Anders’ shoulders inside the bulky sweater, then down and onto his chest.  “We could go back to bed?”

 

Anders chuckles and clutches Taliesin’s hands as they stray lower.  “You’ll only want to get naked, and fuck all that for a laugh.  Not today.”

“Ooh, but think of how nice it will be,” Taliesin grins, now kissing Anders’ neck, murmuring the words in between. “The three of us,” a kiss, “tangled together,” another kiss, “all warm and lovely…”

 

These last are blown against the shell of Anders’ ear, and Anders laughs.  “No sale,” he says, and picks up the television remote.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, that sounds lovely, but its the running to the bathroom in the buff afterward that I object to…”

“Huh,” Taliesin says, trying to sound offended, “Stop being so ruddy sensible, you.”  He sighs, then sniffs the air.  “Hey,” he says, “Do you smell chocolate?”

 

Anders pauses, the remote held in mid-air, the channel for the moment resting on a flamboyant chef.  “Yeah,” he says, sounding puzzled.  Quiet for a moment, then he calls, “Fen?  Are you making something?”

“Maybe,” comes the cryptic answer, and Taliesin raises his eyebrows, then turns slightly, looking at the doorway from the lounge into the kitchen.  

“What is it?  Cake?” he asks, and waggles his eyebrows hopefully.

 

A pause, then, “No.  Not cake.  Hang on.”

Taliesin giggles, wrapping his arms tight around Anders’ chest.  “The suspense is killing me,” he whispers dramatically.

“Your fucking death-grip is killing  _ me _ ,” Anders mutters back, wriggling his torso.  Taliesin loosens his hold and Anders continues flicking through the channels, then squeaks.  “Fantasia!  Holy shit!”

“Eh?” Taliesin asks, blinking as Mickey Mouse cavorts with broomsticks, classical music in the background.  “What the fuck is this?”

 

“It’s a classic, you cretin,” Fenris says, entering the room carrying a tray.  He sets it carefully on the small coffee table and picks up two mugs, one in each hand.  “Rearrange yourselves and drink this.”

“Hot chocolate! Fen, you’re the best!” Taliesin crows, wriggling his legs out from around Anders.  

“Idiot,” Anders mutters, “Ow! Stop kicking me!  Bloody Void, the hot chocolate isn’t going to evaporate if you don’t drink it!”

 

Finally, they are arranged on the sofa properly, and Fenris hands them both mugs, then takes one and sits down himself.  He leans against Taliesin’s arm, and Taliesin smiles.  And the snow still falls, heavy and silent outside.


	33. Flying Saucers [Fenris x Anders x m!Hawke, prompted, sorta]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the lovely calligraphypenn, because they were nice about doofy ol' Taliesin and how much he loves his 'darling boys'. Tagged for polyamory, fluff, first dates.

Hawke isn’t watching.  It’s so warm here on the sofa at home, between them; Fenris on one side, Anders on the other.  It had been such a performance to agree on this film, and honestly?  Hawke knows he’s not going to remember a damn thing about it tomorrow.  But he keeps his eyes on the little screen anyway, listening as Anders chuckles at some hokey line of dialogue and Fenris snorts at a flying saucer, muttering, “Fasta vass, you can see the  _ string _ .  Amateurs.”

 

It’s been a long time coming, this.  He doesn’t want to think too much about how they got here, all together - how painful the road was, how often he’d questioned if he hadn’t completely ruined everything.  He wonders if he begins thinking about how lucky he is, if his luck won’t… suddenly dry up, or this will all be some fantastic dream.  But when the jump-scare comes, and both his boys, his darling boys, both of them leap a little with the shock, and then laugh, Hawke joins them - and without thinking, he says, “I love you, my darlings.”

 

Fenris turns to him in the cathode glow of the television set, eyes luminous.  His expression is arch, and he asks, “Do you often tell people you love them on your first date?”

Anders laughs and pinches Hawke’s arm, not bothering to tear his eyes off the screen, “And this is the  _ most _ romantic movie too.   _ Such _ a good choice for… did you say first date?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Fenris mutters, settling back against Hawke’s shoulder.  “All of us together.”  He sighs, wriggles a little to get more comfortable, and moves his hand onto Hawke’s stomach, just below where Anders’ rests.  For a moment, Hawke looks at their hands, side by side, and he feels tears suddenly close, looks up at the ceiling to try and clear them.  “I do though,” he mutters, “I really…”

 

“Shhh,” Fenris says, “It’s getting to a good bit.”

Anders laughs quietly, and moves his hand slightly, so that his littlest finger rests against Fenris’ thumb.  “We know,” he murmurs, “And we love you too.”


	34. The Dawn [Iron Bull x Dorian Pavus, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More... well, it would be a stretch to call this fluff, it's more like past hurt/major comfort? But I don't think that's a tag. Anyways, it's gentle and nice (and note to future Abby, you were making up for that awful chapter of Stupid Cupid which you posted today... ouch, remember that?).
> 
> It has been so long since I've seen this work that I honestly don't remember who prompted it, but I know that it was a prompt... ugh.

The rain hurls itself against the canvas, and the wind shakes the little tent.  But under the furs, wrapped in Bull’s arms, all Dorian hears is the quiet whuff of Bull’s breathing; the slow thump of his heartbeat.  Gingerly, he strokes his hand up along Bull’s hip, careful not to disturb the great brute.  He smiles, just a twitch of his lip, and takes a deep breath.  So, this.  This is comfort.

 

The forest moves around them; the world turns.  The storm will make the Graves seem to glow tomorrow morning, the land around them a riot of verdant green and the silvery reflection of raindrops.  And despite all that has happened - the near constant terror, the strangeness of what could be the final days of the world, if Corypheus had his way, all the agonizing over what had occurred in Redcliffe and after, with his father - Dorian knows that he has never been happier than he has been in these last few months of his life.  There is still uncertainty, and fear, and despair.  But they do not weigh on him as they used to, because now… ah, now, when he looks around himself, he sees hope.  

 

And if that hope is somehow made more real by the light brush of Bull’s fingers across his shoulder if they should chance to meet in the yard, his low growl of “Y’alright, Dorian?” after a particularly gruelling battle, then who is Dorian to argue?  He sighs softly, allowing his eyes to fall closed, nestled under the sleeping weight of Bull’s arm.  It is too soon for this bright, heavy thing in his chest to make itself manifest as words, but the weight of them is on Dorian’s tongue, and almost against his will his lips part.   _ No _ , his mind whispers, but he only means to taste them, these words, and what is the harm if Bull is sleeping?  So he whispers, there in the darkness, under Bull’s arm and the furs and the canvas and the trees which thrash and groan in the wind - into the world he whispers “I love you.”

 

His heart leaps, eyes flying open, and he sucks in air as if to recall the words.  He cannot help the way his muscles tighten, almost as if he is ready to run.  But Bull is silent, his breathing unchanged, and slowly, slowly, Dorian relaxes again.  His breathing slows, and he blinks his heavy eyelids once, twice, and then they stay closed.  He feels his body grow heavier, pulled under by the weight of sleep and this deep, wide feeling in his chest, bright as the reflection of the sunlight in a raindrop.  His breathing slows, his heart-rate calming, matching Bull’s own.  Finally he drifts in the beautiful interior landscape, where the rain, the world outside ceases to matter, because all is calm, and sweet, and soft.  It is then that he knows he is asleep; and because of this, it must be a dream when he hears Bull whisper, “Love you too.”

 


	35. On Beauty [f!Hawke x Jethann, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt I really struggled with - one of those ones which you get a number by request from followers on tumblr. The prompt for this was 'the paint's supposed to go where?', and it was recieved from the lovely kveikjum. 
> 
> But I got to use my very neglected female Hawke (at least in my head), and a character that I'd never written before, Jethann from the Blooming Rose. It turned out quite well, if I do say so myself. Tags for this are: art modelling

Hawke clears her throat and shifts impatiently.  “So?” She asks, “What do you think?”

Jethann chuckles, raises an eyebrow.  “Just so we’re clear… the paint’s supposed to go… where, exactly?”

 

Hawke rolls her eyes.  “On the paper, silly.  You promised  _ many, many services _ , if I recollect.  Why isn’t holding still one of them?”

Jethann looks at her carefully, seeming to ponder.  “It’s just… so… you don’t want to have sex at all?  Usually, if people are paying…”

“Oh, uh.”  Hawke looks at him, her lips curling as she tries to suppress a smile, and tucks a skein of her dull blonde hair behind her ear.  “I… wouldn’t discount it.  If that’s okay.  I mean, you’re very pretty.  It’s just…”  Hawke huffs out a breath, “Look.  I’ve already sketched all the people I know.  And… I need someone else to practice on.”  She blushes.  “I’m not very good.  But you’ve got a lovely face, and I like the way you look.  Otherwise I wouldn’t have come back again and made a tit of myself for asking if you’d model for me, would I?”

 

He laughs and cocks his head, begins undoing the ties on his jerkin.  “That’s certainly true.  I suppose you want me naked?”

Hawke shrugs, then nods.  “Yes please,” she says, and her voice is husky.  She blinks twice, the deep blue of her eyes almost black in the low light.  She watches as he begins to undress, then seems to remember her purpose and collects the medium sized box she had bought with her.  Jethann waits until she’s finished arranging her workspace - a low table with a glass of water, several paintbrushes, and a tray of coloured paint, neatly arranged.  He tucks his thumbs deliberately into the waist of his trousers and smiles slyly at her, seeing that look, that hunger on her face that he’s come to know so well.  If he does this right, she’ll be back. “How do you want me?” he asks, low, soft as he pulls down slowly on his trousers, his eyes never leaving hers.

 

Hawke swallows nervously, and tucks her hair behind her ear again.  “Uh… on the bed?  Yeah.  Just… just lie down there.”  He positions himself with one knee bent, hips angled slightly toward her, and props himself up on one elbow, looking at her.  “Like this?”

Hawke nods, then smiles slightly.  “You might want to put your hip down though.  I mean, you’ll be stuck like that for a while.  Don’t want you getting sore.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve suffered for my art,” he tells her coyly, and she laughs a little, then cocks her head and frowns.  Finally, she asks, “Hey… um.  Your… your hair.  Would you..?”

 

He nods, and pulls the ribbon from his hair, letting it fall around his face and shoulders.   He lowers his head, ready to shake his hair out when Hawke says sharply, “Stay there.”

He laughs a little, but holds still.  Ironically, now his view of her is obscured by his hair; now all that fills his gaze is his own body.  He can hear her shift in her chair, the tinkle of the paintbrush in the glass, the intensity of the silence as she begins her work.   _ What a strange hobby, _ he thinks to himself,  _ painting whores. _  He laughs a little to himself again, then reminds himself he should be still.   _ Another line of work to consider _ , he smiles to himself, then shakes his head minutely.  No.  It sounds grand, artists model, but he’ll stick to whoring as long as he can.  It’s too interesting, and although carries great risks, what line of work doesn’t for an elf?  At least here he is well paid, and his regular clients never seem to want too much from him.  He sighs, listening to Hawke as she hums a little under her breath and keeps working.  He smiles to himself again and waits.

 

His neck aches, his thighs ache, his shoulders will never be the same again.  It seems that he itches all over, and still that infernal Hawke will not stop painting.   _ Think of the coin _ , he tells himself for what seems like the twentieth time, and sighs.  He wonders if perhaps she has forgotten that he is not some blasted sculpture, he is a real person.  He hears another sheet flutter to the floor, Hawke’s noise of frustration, and then the noise of her paintbrush in the glass of water.  He’d thought that sound delightful at first.  Now he hates it.  But Hawke gives another sigh, and he hears her shift, and she tells him, “Maker, you must be made of steel.  Thank you.  I… I’m sorry.  I lost track of time.”

 

He sighs, tries to move, and laughs.  “Well,” he says, “And here I was flattering myself that you simply couldn’t tear your gaze from my beautiful form.”  He tries to shift himself again, and gasps with pain.  He hears Hawke’s footsteps on the carpet, and then she is kneeling by the side of the bed, looking at him in concern.  “You… oh no, Flames, you can’t move, can you?”

“I… I am alright,” he begins, but her hands are on his shoulders, pushing him gently up so that he might sit, deft, strong hands massaging his shoulders, his aching neck.  He groans, moving his shoulders around in circles, and feels her shift her weight behind him on the bed.  Jethann gasps, moving his neck now, and then his eyes fall on one of the discarded sheets of paper.  His eyes grow wide, and he inhales.  There, soft, pensive, rendered in strange shades of watery ochre and lilac, is him.  It’s himself, seen through the eyes of another, someone who has made him… made him… “Beautiful,” he whispers, and blinks as Hawke slowly moves her hands over his body.  

 


	36. Given Pause [Dorian Pavus x m!Adaar, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one of athos' prompts - this one for a 'gentle kiss'. I love this story so much, I'm so glad I found it again. Tags are: kissing, fluff.

Dorian pushes back on the broad grey chest, wishing he didn’t feel this way.  But the kiss, this stupid little kiss, it had deepened, Adaar’s warm lips on his, the subsuming feel of the presence of his body so close it had… it had awakened such longing in him, he could not help the doubts which had arisen.   _ Better to ask now than be disappointed later _ , he tells himself, and then pushes again, harder, against the expanse of muscle.  Adaar breaks the kiss, his mouth lingering for a moment over Dorian’s, and then Dorian watches as his throat works and Adaar licks his lips, then draws back, confusion evident in his eyes.

 

Dorian smiles weakly, and it feels false.  He doesn’t want to be talking, he wants to be kissing, kissing this strange, beautiful Vashoth, the man who has such a gift for brutal honesty that he feels as if Adaar couldn’t lie if he tried.  But the doubt is there, crushing this fresh new feeling within him, and so he clears his throat, his hand still on Adaar’s chest as he asks, “I’m sorry.  But are you sure you…”

 

He trails off, unable to continue.  Adaar watches him for a moment longer, and then asks quietly, “Am I sure of what, Dorian?”

Dorian’s throat is dry, so dry.   _ Proud, too proud _ , his father’s voice echoes in the back of his mind and he bristles, raises his chin and arches an eyebrow.  “Are you sure you want to be seen kissing the Tevinter spy?  I would hate to cast such a pall on the reputation of the Herald of Andraste.  You with your holy reputation so newly minted, it would be a shame to…”

Adaar smiles gently, lays a hand against Dorian’s jaw, strokes his thumb over Dorian’s mouth.  “Dorian,” he says quietly, bending forward, kissing Dorian’s cheek, his temple, his mouth.  “Dorian,” Adaar says softly, moving his mouth down to the other side of Dorian’s face, kissing under his jaw on the other side, his neck, the exposed flesh of his shoulder.  Dorian shivers, half-delighted, half-appalled at the public spectacle they are making, and then Adaar stands straight again, looking down at Dorian from his great height.  The light from the leaded windows of the library makes his dark eyes shine peculiarly, and he says, “Dorian, I’m sure.  There is nowhere else I’d rather be than here with you right now.  And I don’t give a fuck who sees us.”  He looks at Dorian then, considering him with concern, “But if you’d rather go somewhere more private then…”

 

Dorian smiles, and bites his bottom lip.  “Perhaps,” he says quietly, and looks down at his hand, still on Adaar’s chest.  He can feel the thrum of heartbeat beneath his palm, and he swallows, trying to crush the nascent hope which tries to rise within him.  “But for now… would you kiss me again?”

Adaar smiles at him, nods, and leans forward to whisper, “With pleasure,” against his lips.  And the hope grows with each passing moment, with every heartbeat.


	37. 'Til the Morning [Zevran x Alistair, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a song prompt from earlgreyer1 (on tumblr). The song was 'Can I Stay' by Ray LaMontagne, which was... almost too inspiring, honestly, because earl got three stories out of it. So this is the first. Tagged: awkward conversations, post-coital cuddling, idiots in love.

“You are like a crow, you know,” Alistair chuckles, looking at him fondly, the pretty blush still clinging to his cheeks and chest.  “A real crow, I mean.”

 

“My dear Warden,” Zevran smirks, flicking his hair back lazily with one hand, “I am a real Crow.”

“No,” Alistair smiles, and gazes up at the canvas over their heads.  The moonlight shines diffuse through the fabric and for a moment the only sound is the wind howling around the mountains, here at the gates of Orzammar.  Alistair shifts a little and he seems suddenly uncomfortable.   Zevran narrows his eyes, leaning his chin on his hands, lying on his belly next to Alistair, but he only waits - waits and watches.  Alistair glances at him quickly, shyly, then mutters, “I mean, you’re smart.  Much more clever than people seem to give you credit for.  I mean, I know I’m not the sharpest blade in the barrel, but…”  He sighs, a quick huff of breath, then rushes on, “And you’re very protective of the things… and people… you care about.”

Zevran laughs aloud, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists with pleasure, the way his throat constricts.  He raises an eyebrow and says glibly, “And I like shiny things.  You forgot that part, Alistair.”

 

“Yeah,” Alistair says, and sighs.  He tucks one hand under his head, and bites his lips together.  Then he shakes his head.  “I’m so daft.  I was trying to think for ages of some way to… ah, forget it.”

Something in Zevran’s chest tightens, and he tries to will himself to silence.  What he should do here is only shrug, to ride over this moment, full as it is of spring-traps and hidden blades.  The man lying next to him may one day be a king.  It is perilous for either of them, any expression of this bright new feeling, and Zevran knows he should crush it as soon as he can.   _ Fucking is fine _ , he thinks,  _ Anything more is dangerous.  And not just dangerous to him.  For you too.  You know that _ .  But even while he thinks these thoughts, his mouth moves seemingly of its own accord, and he says casually, “It is impossible to forget what you do not know.  So tell me what you were thinking, and then I will forget it.”

 

Alistair sighs again, harrumphs nervously and frowns.  He pauses for so long that Zevran thinks that he has mercifully decided against speaking and is about to change the subject.  But then, suddenly, Alistair blurts, “I was trying to think for ages how to tell you that you’re beautiful, and thoughtful, and I think I love you. I mean, I do love you, not just the… you know, the sex, but  _ you,  _ you.  Inside.  Not inside you like that, I mean… yourself.”  He shakes his head again and looks imploringly at Zevran, “So now can you forget it?  It’s not something you want, I know that, but I can’t help it, Zev.”

 

Zevran’s mouth opens, and he sits up suddenly, as if trying to physically distance himself from those wonderful, dangerous words.  Alistair doesn’t look at him.  If he had, it might have been easier to fling them back at him, to try to make him unfeel them, even if it broke Zevran’s heart to do it.  He tries desperately to find some anger about it, fumbles within himself and can find only a kind of bemused irritation.  

So he squares his shoulders and shakes back his hair, realising he can hold his tongue no longer.  “You are wrong, Alistair.  I… I do want it.  We all want to be loved.  But… please.  Do not confuse a good time with something more.”  That’s where he means to finish, but his mouth runs on without him, his mind scrambling to keep up, “But… for what it is worth...”

  
And suddenly, he cannot draw breath.  He feels his shoulders tense, his nostrils flare, and he averts his eyes from Alistair.  “But what?” Alistair asks, and sits up, looking at him in concern now, Zevran can picture the look in his eyes so clearly, and he knows it, he knows.  To do him credit, Alistair seems to as well.  Slowly, he reaches out, cups Zevran’s cheek - leans forward, kisses him gently.  For some things, they both realise, are better left unsaid.  And together, they wait for the morning to come again.


	38. Through the Nighttime [Anders x Nathaniel Howe, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second installment of Earlgreyer's prompt from 'Can I Stay' by Ray LaMontagne. This one is tagged: nightmares, homecoming, comfort (there are also a tiny amount of kanders feels in this too).

The dark blood bubbles between the hurlock’s teeth as it grins at him and he wakes, gasping.  It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and then he grimaces.  Vigil’s Keep.   _ Welcome home _ , he thinks bitterly, and feels so far away from every notion of that word that he could almost cry.

 

Instead he sighs and shakes his head, sits up and pushes his sleep tousled hair out of his face.  From the bunk on the other wall of the narrow cell, Anders moans something, and jerks his body over onto his side, his arm trailing onto the floor.  Nathaniel turns slightly, facing Anders, wondering if he should wake him.  He always seems to get the worst of the dreams.  The sudden movement has pushed the thick woolen blanket away from Anders’ chest; the thin cotton shirt he wears under his armor limning clearly every nuance of his chest, the long lines of the muscles under the skin of his arm.  For a moment Nathaniel’s eyes rove over Anders’ body, and he frowns, licks his bottom lip quickly, and lies back down to turn his gaze to the ceiling instead.  

 

Personally, he would not have chosen Anders for a bunkmate.  He would have preferred a cell of his own - both Justice and Oghren have them.   _ That’s ‘cause they stink, Nate _ , Cousland had grinned, her hands on her hips when he had asked her why,  _ Anyway, I thought you two might be good for each other.  Y’know _ … and she’d made a circle with the fingers of one hand, then thrust the index finger of the other hand rapidly in and out of it.  Her laughter had echoed off the stone walls as he’d walked away from her.  He cringes still to think of it, the shameful way the images had risen in his mind at the suggestion.  He tells himself that he thinks Anders is just a pretty idiot, his head full of fluff and his own self-importance.  And he does, on some level, but… there is more there too.  A grudging respect.  A species of… affection, if affection might be characterised by a sharp desire to both kiss him and smack some sense into him.  Nathaniel sighs and rubs his hands over his face.  It’s stupid, he knows it.  

 

Anders shifts again and whines in his sleep, then sobs.  Nathaniel’s brow creases in concern at the sound, and he sits up again, looking across the room.  A shudder wracks Anders’ sleeping form, and again he sobs, a choked off, moaning sound which sounds like  _ arl _ .  Nathaniel frowns again, then throws off the blankets and swings his legs out of bed.  He crosses the room, kneeling next to Anders’ bed, his warm feet sending protests at the frigid stone floor.  He hesitates for a moment, then puts his hand on Anders’ arm.  “Hey,” he says softly, “It’s just a…”

 

Anders seems to half-wake at that, and in that moment, he looks so lost, and so afraid that Nathaniel is overcome.  So when Anders opens his arms, wordlessly, shifting backward in the little bunk to make room for him, Nathaniel doesn’t hesitate.  He simply gets into the bed as well, throwing the blankets back over them both, his arms going around Anders’ sleep-warm body.  For a while, Anders is quiet, then a hitching breath escapes him and he sobs, burying his face in Nathaniel’s chest.  And as he holds Anders while he cries, there in the deep darkness of the night, something in Nathaniel’s heart swells with a fierce protectiveness.  He closes his eyes, scarcely able to allow himself to feel it - it burns so brightly.  

 


	39. 'Til the Daybreak [Isabela x Merrill, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last one of Earlgreyer's works for the prompt 'Can I Stay' by Ray LaMontagne. This one is tagged: reconciliation, blame.

She finds the pirate at the bar, there in her usual place.  Merrill sits down next to Isabela, hoisting herself up on the stool at the side of the bar.  For a long time, Isabela doesn’t look at her, only stares into her tankard.  Merrill feels the waves of emotion rolling off her - chagrin, defiance, shame.  It’s all mixed up in there, but honestly?  Merrill doesn’t care.  The only thing she knows is that, if Isabela can bring herself to look up, then Merrill will ask her. 

 

But she doesn’t, or not right away at least.  “Kitten,” she says, “There’s something you should know.”  Isabela takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to come back.  I shouldn’t have, it was stupid to come back.  And I know I told Hawke I came back for them.  But… that’s… not entirely true.”

 

Merrill waits.  She thinks of that night, that first night; she’d been a little drunk, still exhilarated from being able to help those poor trapped Guards on the Storm Coast.  She barely remembers what she’d said to Isabela; probably something about how beautiful she was when she fought, how the sun flashed on her blades, her teeth, eyes shining and skin slick with sweat.  Whatever she’d said, she’d said it right, for once.  Because the next she’d remembered was being back in her little home, in her own little bed, Isabela’s mouth on hers, her hand between her legs, right where she’d wanted it.  And she was gentle, sweet, perfect, like the new dawn.  She recalls the heft of Isabela’s breast in her hand, the nipple hard through the thin fabric of her shift, the way there was no silence between them, no space; there was heat, and skin, and the groan of the vhenadahl as its branches shifted in the wind, the soft sound of their bodies together.  She remembers all of it as if it is a reflection in a dusty mirror; obscured, oblique.

 

The noise of the bar hasn’t reached its feverish pitch yet.  A man approaches Isabela from on the other side, smiling and sure of himself.  He bends close to her ear, seems to whisper something to her which makes Isabela laugh.  But the sound is without humour, and then she turns, quickly, her hand snaking out to grab the man by his collar, pull the side of his head close to her mouth.  He squawks in surprise, and she hisses something to him which Merril doesn’t catch.  She stares into the mans’ eyes, wondering what Isabela has said to him, what would make a man like that’s eyes go so round, his mouth drop open and his skin blanch.  Isabela pushes the man backward and he stumbles slightly, still looking at her, horrified, and then seems to recover himself.  “Bitch,” he mutters, turning to walk away.  Isabela watches him for a moment, then turns around again to face the bar.

 

Still, Merrill waits.  Finally, Isabela raises her tankard, takes a long drink, then puts it back down and turns toward Merrill.  “There’s something else, Kitten.  I’m… not good at this.  I’m not used to it, to sticking around.  Staying.  But, I feel like…”  She takes a deep breath and huffs it out again, grits her teeth and stares at Merrill, who raises her chin, but stays quiet.  “I feel like I could stay.  If it meant I could stay with you.  If you want me.”

Slowly, Merrill slides off the stool, and stands close to Isabela, taking both her hands.  Quietly, she leans forward, gently kissing Isabela, then whispers, “Of course I do, Isabela.  You’re all I ever wanted.  But is this..?”

“It is what it is, Kitten.  For now, isn’t that enough?”

 

Merrill nods slowly, and smiles.  Yes.  For now, that is enough.


	40. Like Chalk, Like Snow or Silence [Fenris x Anders, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the delightful Mnemosynea (therealmnemo on tumblr), who prompted me with the song 'Silence' by Delerium, featuring Sarah McLachlan. Tagged for canon typical violence, hurt/comfort.

Chest heaving, blood drying on his skin, the smell of it copper and heavy.  The sword moves through the air; the grip is worn smooth with long use.  He feels the scream of his muscles under the armour, the crackle of the lyrium under his brands.  Fenris steps aside, one, two steps, the sand soft and treacherous.  They are losing here, and badly.  The Tal-Vashoth grins at him, the taam kaas in his hands already foul with blood.  Fenris takes another step back, bringing the blade up to block the blow.  They had already fought a mercenary band earlier in the afternoon today.  The coast is crawling with them, but it had been sheer hubris - or perhaps only wishful thinking - not to expect another attack on the same expedition.  

 

The blade of the huge ax comes down, and Fenris grunts, using all of his strength to try and throw the warrior off balance.  But the Tal-Vashoth has a greater counter-weight, a greater height advantage, and Fenris knows it is futile.  And he will not last at this rate - his stamina is too greatly taxed, but if he can just… if he can just move to one side…

 

Suddenly, the Tal-Vashoth rocks backward, snarling, and brings the pommel end of his great ax up so quickly that Fenris does not expect it.  He knocks Fenris’ grip on his sword up, and Fenris raises his eyes, watching the blade shine in the mid afternoon sun as it slides from his hands into the air.  Time seems to slow around them; Fenris watches dispassionately as what he can only assume is his death comes for him.  He has no time to move away - no time to cry out.  In that instant the world is pure, beautiful, almost glowing with the infinite richness of its colour.  The sensation of the sweat on his brow, down his back, the air lush with the smell of crushed grass and the sharp tang of the sea, the heave of his lungs as he inhales it one last time.  For an instant, images and feelings fly through his mind - he has no time to fixate on any of it. The blow arrives, and for an instant, his world is full of pain, the taste of blood in his mouth as his teeth shatter, his jaw breaking in several places.  And then, all at once, the world is silent.

  
  
  


_ come on _

_ come on breathe _

_ breathe you intolerant asshole of an elf you have no right to die on me now _

 

_ come on _

 

The voice seems familiar, but he cannot place it.  If this is death, it is very… annoying.   _ Stop it _ , he tries to tell the voice,  _ I will die if I wish to _ .  Everything seems very far away, very white, as if he is underneath an ocean of snow, or buried in chalk, a wave of white.  He cannot recall what brought him here.   _ Perhaps I am dead _ , he thinks, and feels - what?  Only a strange kind of disappointment.  

_ breathe maker damnit _

 

The voice sounds strange, reedy with desperation, but also irritated.  It makes Fenris wonder - who does this voice belong to?  He feels hands on his chest, his jaw, hears a hiss which could be concern or vexation.  There is a dull ache suffusing him now, it still feels far away.  Warmth begins to leach into him slowly, and he feels a peculiar itch in his lungs, in his heart and head.

 

_ hawke oh oh no _

_ i think i i think i’m losing him _

 

_ I am not lost _ , he thinks, and tries to smile,  _ I will always be right here. _  The itch intensifies, he tries to move his hands to scratch it.  There is a gasp and short moan from somewhere overhead, and he feels something wet and warm plop onto his cheek. 

 

_ oh shit come on _

_ come on fenris _

_ please fen please _

 

Fenris.  That sounds familiar.   _ It is me, _ he realises,  _ the voice is talking to me. _  Somehow, from somewhere, his fingers feel softness like velvet or flesh under them.  He half remembers something then, some taste, salt, bitter like tears, mingling with something herbal.   _ Elfroot _ , he thinks, wondering if it is the voice which has recalled those sensations to his mind.  He feels so outside everything, suddenly he can see so far - there, far below, there he is, someone is holding his body, there are others close by, one kneeling, the other with hands in their hair.   _ Keep talking to me,  _ he thinks,  _ I want to stay.  I want to stay here with you. _

 

There is a pressure in his chest now, he seems to sink up, if that is possible, deeper into the white.  There is nothing else, just a feeling of pervasive heaviness, a strange quietude which muffles everything.  The figures below fade into whiteness

 

and then

_ please take  take a breath   pleaseplease fen  _

_ BREATHE! _

  
  


and then his lungs are screaming, he takes a breath, coughs it out, blood flying.  Pain roars into his head and he cries out, his hands, his legs flying, the pressure, the pain, everywhere.  He takes another sharp breath, hears relieved laughter and tries to speak when a voice,  _ his _ voice, the one who had laughed, the one who sounds as if he’s been crying says, “That’s right, you stubborn bastard.  Breathe.”  Another short laugh, and then the warm hands are back on his chest, and Fenris slowly opens his eyes.  Anders smiles down at him, his eyes red-rimmed, more tired looking than Fenris has ever seen him.  Fenris watches, silent, as Anders bends his head and sniffs.  He tries to speak then, but the pain is too great.  Anders looks up again, smiles stiffly, and whispers, “I can’t believe I nearly lost you.”

  
_ You could never lose me _ , Fenris thinks, a surreal sense of calm growing inside him.  He closes his eyes again, breathes through the pain, and thinks,  _ I will always be right here. _


	41. I Know [m!Hawke x Anders, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from a song prompt for the lovely kveikjum on tumblr. The song was 'Be Still' by The Fray, and it is rather delightful. Tagged: idiots in love, blame, after-game.

Quiet now.  Soft.  Sweet.  Still.

 

The night air moves the grass around them, their path through it sending tiny insects reeling and dancing around the dim lantern Hawke carries.  The moonlight pours in fits and starts through the deep clouds which hurry on their way across the sky.  Kirkwall lies many wheels to the south; but to them, it might as well be a star, or a terrible dream.  All behind them is gone.  Here, there is only stillness and silence.

 

Anders walks ahead a little way, his pace slow.  Hawke watches as he shakes his head, then tilts it slightly as if he is listening or questioning something.  In the dim glow which suffuses the night, his eyes roam over Anders’ figure - the singed edge of his cloak, the staff he carries wrapped carefully and disguised.  He wonders why they continue to fear the worst, when really - the worst has come and gone.  And Hawke will never forget it; the look in Anders’ eyes as he smiled slightly and bared his throat for the knife, the way he had said his life was forfeit.  How could discovery be any worse than that look, that resigned, terrible look among the smoke and chaos?

 

Tonight, everything is different - as if there is some deep magic at work which is outside the realm of mortal understanding.  Tonight, under the deep blue-white of the moonlight, the smell of the grass and the whirr of the wings of the little bugs which fly, tonight it seems like they have abandoned the world.  And so, it is with no surprise that Hawke hears Anders say softly, “Love.  Can we stop a moment?”

 

“Of course,” Hawke tells him, and extinguishes the lantern quickly, setting it on the ground.  There is a long break in the clouds and the moonlight around them deepens, washing everything to a bright silver, bleaching all the colour from the world.  He approaches Anders, stopping half a pace away to look at him.  Anders eyes are turned up to the sky, and he watches the passage of clouds across the moon as if he can read something in it.  Then, faintly, he smiles.  “Love,” he says again, “I’m so sorry.”

 

Hawke’s mouth drops open.  “What?  That’s… why?  I mean…”  He closes his mouth with a snap, aware he is not making sense, and takes a deep breath.  Finally, he asks, still incredulous, “What for?”

“This,” Anders says simply and smiles.  “You shouldn’t be out here, in the middle of nowhere.  Not now, not with me, not when you could have had so much, so many things were offered to you.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m…”  He stops, clearly struggling, and then shakes his head.  “I just don’t want you to… resent it, the decision.  And I mean… I’m frightened, but… I would rather that you…”

  
“Anders,” Hawke interrupts him softly.  “Do you really think there’s anywhere else I’d rather be?”  He goes to Anders then, takes both hands in his.  They are cold, and the callused palms feel rougher than ever.  “No matter where you go, no matter where this leads us, I’ll be here.  I’m here with you.  Nothing could keep me from staying with you.”  He sniffs, eyes swimming with tears, then smiles as he looks up at Anders.  “And if you’re frightened, I’m here… I’m...”  He pauses, shrugs a little.  And because there are no words for what he feels, he simply takes Anders in his arms, hoping that by this action, he will be able to convey some of the certainty of his feelings.  Briefly, Anders stiffens, and then his arms rise, going to Hawke’s back.  “I’m here,” Hawke mutters into Anders’ shoulder, and Anders nods, then tells him in return, “I know.”


	42. Sunlight [Carver Hawke x Felix Alexius]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure who prompted this work, but the prompt was 'On a Tuesday afternoon, the sunlight glowing in your hair', which is pretty much the prettiest prompt I've ever received.

The genlock smirks horribly, all of its needle-sharp teeth on display.  Carver pushes it off, grunting with the effort - though genlocks are the smallest of the ‘spawn, they are tough to get rid of.  All around them in the tunnel, there is the echo and clang of battle, the shriek of metal on metal, of dying men and beasts.  A blaze of magic roars past, and a hurlock behind Carver bellows, thrashing and screaming as it is engulfed in flame.  “Carver!” comes a voice,  _ his  _ voice, but he can’t, not now, so he swings his sword by way of answer, burying it deep in the exposed flesh at the neck of the genlock’s crude armour.  

 

The genlock grins at him, then looks down.  It seems surprised by the gouting black blood coming from it’s body, from the dark steel protruding from it’s neck.  “Die, you fuck,” Carver tells it, and with a gurgle, the genlock obliges him.  Carver huffs out a breath, looks up, and sees Felix, the lone mage on the field engaging an Emissary on his own.

 

“No, no,” Carver says, and already he is running, running to the spot where Felix stands, waxy skin alive with the dancing of flames from the torches, from the burning bodies in this hell-pit, his sword raised.  Felix twirls his staff, but even the motion is exhausted looking, and the spell he produces is weak.  The Emissary laughs, curling its long talons in a complicated gesture as it manipulates the Fade, seeking to destroy Felix, to reduce him to ashes.  The low bellow seems to echo in the confined space, and in the instant of it’s distraction, he strikes.

 

The Emissary screams and turns.  The full horror of it’s expression dissolves into rage as Carver strikes again, and again, dealing blow after blow, barely feeling his own wounds, ignoring the scream of his aching muscles.  This is  _ Felix _ he’s fighting for,  _ Felix _ , he’s right there, and there will be nobody,  _ nothing _ who touches him.  Finally, the Emissary shrieks and claws at the air, before dissolving into a pathetic pile of rags.

 

And still, Carver cannot stop slashing at it.  Slowly, he comes back to himself, realises he’s yelling, “Not him, never him!  You can’t take him, I won’t let you!”  He gasps, aware suddenly that the battle is over, and that Felix is standing there, drawn and pale, but alive, smiling.  “Carver,” he says, “Let’s go.  This patrol needs to recover.”

 

“Yeah,” Carver agrees, though it’s not his decision to make - Felix outranks him, but he never phrases orders as that, only as something more akin to suggestions.  Felix smiles, and sighs, and they begin gathering what remains of their patrol, to bring them back out and into the sun.

 

The day has waned while they’ve been fighting in the tunnels.  The sunlight gleams brightly off the early spring snow, and an avalanche roars, distant thunder.  Most of their fellow Wardens are silent; they had lost many more than the brevity of the skirmish would indicate.  Carver watches from the corner of his eye as Felix rubs a shaking hand over his brow and smiles - careworn, worried.  A beam of light catches his hair, makes it blaze darkly, and before he has thought about it, Carver says quietly, “I love you.  I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

“You won’t ever lose me,” Felix replies softly, and his hand comes out, taking Carver’s gently.  “Just like I’ll never lose you.  No matter what happens, no matter what the hour of our death brings, I’ll always have you with me.  Because I love you too.”

  
And the sun slides over the horizon, quietly vanishing behind the mountain ranges.  In the gathering gloaming of dusk, Carver tightens his grip on Felix’s hand.  


	43. Hubris [No Ship]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, this was for Mnemosynea - cats and Anders, Anders and cats.

The little cat hunkers low, intent upon its prey.  Eyes wide, it stares with a focus so single minded that it makes him smile a little, wondering what it would do if he chose this moment to scoop it up.  But he doesn’t.  He waits, hand paused on the door of the clinic, watching the cat as it watches the mouse, its tail switching, hind legs coming in, ready to power a leap.  Anders bites his lip when the cat’s rear end waggles, and then it has streaked across the narrow alleyway.  It has woefully misjudged the distance, and it slams into the opposing wall with a brief yowl of annoyance.  A flurry of movement ensues, the mouse zips into a nearby crack in the wall, and the cat is left shaking its head dazedly.  

 

He cannot help but laugh.  The cat looks at him in disdain, as if to say,  _ As if you’d do better! _ and he chuckles and shrugs.  “Pride comes before a fall, you know,” he tells it, “You were so close, too.  Poor thing.”  He pauses, pushes the door open, and asks, “Want something to eat?”

 

The cat narrows its eyes at him and makes no reply.  Anders knows it is useless to do more convincing than that; he leaves the door open as he stalks inside, summoning magelight without thinking too much about it.  The dim blue suffuses the room, and he goes to the cupboard, pulls out stale bread, coolish milk.  The bread is stiff but not inedible, and he breaks a handful into smaller chunks into a small bowl before pouring the milk over it.  Then he takes the bowl, and goes back to the door. 

 

The little stray is sitting there, still looking at the mousehole in irritation.  Anders puts the bowl down beside it, backing off a few paces before crouching down, just inside the doorway.  The cat sniffs the air, all feline suspicion, then looks at Anders tentatively, before looking back at the bowl.  “Go on,” he says quietly, “It’s for you.”

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the cat takes one step forward, then another.  Stretching its neck out, it sniffs at the milk and bread, and then laps it.  This nervousness soon gives way, and in a few moments the stray is crouched close to the bowl, eating with gusto.  “Good kitty,” Anders tells it, “Where are your people, Lady Hubris, Fearless Mouser of Kirkwall’s Underbelly?” 

The cat straightens, seems to regard him for a moment, then blinks.  The bread and milk is all gone, and slowly, with infinite caution, the cat comes toward him.  He does not move.  Flinching back every few steps, looking as if it will run at the slightest sign that Anders means to touch it, it comes closer, until finally, it touches its head gently against his bent knee.  “Hubris,” he murmurs, “You liked that?  Come back tomorrow, there’ll be more for you.”

 

The cat says nothing, rubs its whole body against the length of his thigh, and he turns slowly as it stalks off down the alleyway.  He smiles, sees its tail is held a little higher, and shakes his head.  Then he picks up the bowl and goes inside.


	44. All the Wrong Ways [For Kandersgiving 2016]

“Excuse me,” says a voice over his shoulder, and Anders turns.  A man stands there, his grey eyes piercing, hands tucked up into the sleeves of his robe.  Anders frowns over his shoulder at him, and the man smiles, then says softly, “I don’t think you should be drawing in that.”

 

Anders narrows his eyes, tightens his fingers around the stub of pencil.  “Who are you?”  He sneers and tells the man, “I’ll draw where I like.  You can’t tell me what to do.”

The man - though he’s not more than nineteen, only a few years older than Anders himself - tilts his head and steps forward, then leads over Anders’ shoulder, reaching for the book on the desk.  The proximity of their bodies is such that Anders can feel the warmth of him there and he stiffens, unsure of what he should do.  The man points at something on the page, and whispers, “Pretend I’m showing you something.”

 

Anders looks at the page, where the man is pointing.  He runs his finger along the parchment, not drawing any attention to the rather crudely drawn Templars in the margins, one of whom is being devoured by a giant cat, the others drawn fleeing in terror before it.  “There are better methods than this,” the man mutters, right in his ear.  His breath is warm, and Anders feels it tickle the hair on his cheek.  “This will get you noticed in all the wrong ways.”

 

“I’m not scared of them,” Anders returns in a fierce whisper, his grip tightening on the pencil again.  “I’ll draw in every book, I don’t give a shit for them.  Who are they to..?”

“They’re Templars.  They don’t give a shit for you either,” the man hisses, just as fiercely.  “Once we’re here, we’re in their world.  You can learn to play by their rules… or…” And here, the man’s voice changes, and Anders can hear the small smile in it, “You can help us.”

Anders’ heart almost stops in his chest at those words.  He scarcely knows what to say, almost turns around in delight.  The man turns a page and points to a new section, running his finger along the parchment as if he is reading a passage to Anders.  “If you want to find out more, come and meet me in the Chantry after midnight.  If you don’t, then that’s fine too.  But there are choices to be made.”  He pauses, then, as if an afterthought has struck him, he murmurs, “I’m Karl.”

“Anders,” he breathes, and feels Karl squeeze his shoulder briefly as he rises.  The touch tingles, even as Karl turns and walks away. 


	45. Moments [For Kandersgiving 2016]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday of Kandersgiving was a good 'un - 'Don't say _I love you_ '. Hoohoo, baby, cue the waterworks.

It had started almost by accident.

 

Walking side by side in the corridor, two by two, heads bowed under the Templars’ gaze, the mages file into the dining hall to await the evening meal.  Silence reigns.  There have been a rash of bad Harrowings at Kinloch, and the mood is sour.  Anders stares at his feet without seeing their progress, wondering how long he can take it.  Even the air seems tense, as if it is a compound only waiting for the right combination of elements in order to turn combustive.  He doesn’t dare look up, knows his thoughts will be plain on his face.

 

Then, quite suddenly, Karl’s hand is there, brushing against his.  Anders stifles a gasp as he feels the little finger loop around his, squeezing gently, then the contact is gone.  Quickly, he glances at Karl, who is walking serenely next to him, his head held high.  Karl does not look in his direction, but the intent in that brief contact is clear -  _ don’t give up.  I love you. _

 

Anders looks back down at the floor, raises his hand to pull his cowl lower over his forehead.  But this time, instead of hiding his rage and fear, he is hiding a smile.  Whatever they do to them, whatever happens - it is all bearable, as long as Karl is here.  

 

It happens again and again - when they burn Karl’s writing, when they beat Anders for insubordination, when they are both forced to stay silent, when the rage and the horror begin to become too much.  Then they each reach out, linking their littlest fingers together, and give a brief squeeze -  _ don’t give up.  I love you. _

 

Even all these years later, Anders still feels the brush of Karl’s hand on his, their fingers intertwining briefly - a quick squeeze, then the warmth is gone.


	46. By Chance [For Kandersgiving 2016]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kandersgiving prompt for Saturday was alternate universe - so here, of course, is the de rigeur modern AU.

“Hello, handsome,” the young man says, walking backward next to Karl, clutching the clipboard to his chest.  The ears of his orange cat kigurumi bounce a little with every step, in spite of the drizzle.  “Do you like animals?”

Karl chuckles and slows slightly.  “Yes.  Why?”

“Well it must be your lucky day then!” the young man beams.  “Because here, I have something which will help you help animals in need.  All you need to do is sign, and you can help prevent really awful things that hurt our relationship with our animal friends.  Things like sow crating and vivisection, all sorts of…”

Karl nods, smiling gently, feeling strangely jealous of the young man’s zeal for his topic.  “I’ll sign,” he says, and the man stops mid-flow, looking shocked.

 

“You will?” The young man stops walking, staring at Karl.  When Karl nods, he brightens and thrusts the clipboard forward.  “Of course!  Clearly, you’re as kind as you are beautiful, a star among…”

“Steady on,” Karl laughs, “You don’t need to lay it on that thick.  I already said I would sign.”

 

He takes the clipboard and pen from the man, and reads the by-line on the petition carefully before signing and printing his name and address.  His lips thin momentarily as he looks at the small amount of signatures, and he looks up at the young man, frowning slightly, then gives him back his clipboard.  The man smiles at him curiously, then asks, “What?”

Karl shakes his head, takes a breath and goes to speak, then thinks better of it.  “Nothing,” he says, “Have a good day.  Good luck.”

“No,” the younger man says, looking worried now, “What is it?  Did I spell something wrong?  You took the time to read it properly,” he says, his voice slightly awed.  The look in his eyes is odd, and Karl wonders if he’s used to not being taken seriously.  He sighs.

 

“Are you… part of a group at all?  It doesn’t seem right for you to be doing this all by yourself.  And it didn’t have any space for a voter registration number on your petition.  That will make it invalid under Redcliffe’s by-laws.”  He watches the young man’s face fall, and grimaces.  “I’m sorry.  I’m a lawyer.”  He puts out his hand and tells the young man, “Karl Thekla.”

“Anders,” the young man tells him forelornly.  Karl smiles.

 

“Nice to meet you,” he says, and raises an eyebrow slightly.  He peers up at the sky, the lowering clouds and the drizzle which is now more like rain, then looks back at his new acquaintance.  “Anders, this is no weather to be gathering signatures.  Would you like to grab a coffee, maybe?  Take some shelter until the weather improves?”  He takes a calculated guess and sweetens the deal - “I’ll buy.”

Anders perks up, but only marginally.  “Sure,” he says, and then frowns, “You’re a lawyer?  What kind of law?”

 

Karl smiles at him and chuckles a little.  “Civil rights, mostly.  Why?  Is that a problem?”

“No,” Anders tells him, and he straightens, bites his lip and smiles - a true smile, open and rather delightful.  “It’s not a problem at all.”


	47. Mercy On Me [Fenris x Anders]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! An Overwatch/Dragon Age cross-over because who could resist?? Not me, obviously.

“Andraste’s flaming  _ knickers _ !” Anders yells at the screen, half rising out of his seat, “You idiots!  I can’t heal you if I’m fucking  _ dead _ !  And who’s got the bloody payload?!”

Fenris hides his smirk, but just.  He sniffs, and asks casually, “If you hate it so much, why do you always play Mercy?”

“Because I’m clearly a masochist,” Anders harrumphs, and plops himself back down on the sofa.  He huffs in annoyance, then glances at Fenris.  “Anyway, what would you know?  You never play support.  You’re always Reaper.”

“Not true,” Fenris says, and looks back down at his book, “I’ve played Genji before.”

Anders snorts.  “Like, three times,” he says, then grabs at the controller again, “Oh shit!  I forgot about the respaw… fuck. Dead a-bloody-gain.”  He sighs.  “One more game, and then I’m going to bed.”  Fenris inhales slowly, knowing that one game might well become five.  He sighs, and smiles.

 

He is sitting up in bed, still reading, when Anders finally drags himself through to the bathroom.  He snorts, staring at the words without really reading them, and he wonders what the appeal is; to play a game like Overwatch, clearly designed as a first person shooter, without… well, without shooting  _ something _ seems to him to be bit of a waste of time.  Besides, Anders heals things all day at work.  Why would he want to do it for fun too?   _ One more mystery _ , he thinks and shakes his head.  He will never really understand how he and Anders ended up together; only that it feels… right, somehow.  He hears the shower go on and tries to concentrate on his book.  One thing that is not right, however, is how Anders’ constant refrain is how his team mates never support him.  Fenris sighs, and closes the book.  The shower goes off, and he puts the book on the side table.  Then, he pauses as an idea occurs to him, and he picks up his phone.  Quickly, he sends a text message, putting his phone on silent to await a reply.  

 

He scootches down in bed and Anders comes through, rubbing at his hair with a towel.  “Still awake?” he asks, “Good book, then?”

“Good enough,” Fenris says, then holds out his arms.  Anders laughs a little under his breath, throws the towel into the hallway and scoops up his pajama pants.  Fenris huffs and rolls his eyes impatiently.  “Alright, alright,” Anders says, smiling, and gets into bed.  He switches the light off and Fenris takes him in his arms, holding him close.  “Good game, then?” he asks, his voice muffled by Anders’ chest.

 

“Huh,” Anders says bitterly, “I tried playing as McCree, but I’m bloody rubbish at it.  Mercy just fits me, I don’t know.  But…”

“I know.  Nobody ever helps you out, all you do is help them.”

“Yeah.  Story of my life,” Anders sighs and cuddles Fenris closer, nuzzling his chin into the top of Fenris’ head.  “Thanks for putting up with me, love.”

Fenris chuckles, then yawns.  “It is a chore, the constant whining.  Lucky for you, you are quite good looking.”  His phone buzzes and he wriggles out from under Anders’ arm, picking it up briefly.  The returning message is simple:  _ YES FEN _ followed by a series of laughing emoji.  Fenris smiles, then returns the phone, snuggles back down next to Anders.

“Who was that?” Anders asks sleepily.

Fenris kisses the crook of Anders’ elbow, closing his eyes.  “Just Hawke.  I might go visiting tomorrow night.  Would that be alright?”

“‘Course,” Anders replies, then yawns again, “Good night, love.”

“Good night,” Fenris replies, and closes his eyes.  He goes to sleep, still smiling.

  
  


“Two questions,” Hawke says, “One, do you want a beer?  And two, can I stay and watch? I fuckin’ love watching you play Reaper.  You kick ass.”

“Thank you, but I am not playing Reaper tonight.  It would be too obvious.  And no, I do not want any rotten wheat water.  But you can stay if you wish to.  Since it  _ is _ your house.”  

Hawke laughs, “Sweet!  Heh, this is going to be classic.  Oh man, that’s the best name…”  Hawke looks at Fenris for a moment longer, then shakes their head.  “He’s gonna figure it out.   _ Mercys_Sword _ is so…  _ blatant. _  You may as well have gone with  _ HardforHealers.” _

Fenris rolls his eyes and sighs.  “Your suggestion was duly noted.  Now shut up and let me play.”

 

Three games, two changes of map, and he still has not found Anders.  Perhaps this idea was not so brilliant after all.  Fenris swaps with Hawke, watches as they run through five matches as D.Va, the mech stomping through each map, firing with impunity.  “No style,” he sighs, smiling at his friend, who glances at him and shrugs.  “Does the job, doesn’t it?” Hawke asks, then frowns at the screen and says, “Hey, isn’t that Anders?   _ WhiskersvonPrettyPaws _ ?  It’s a Mercy.”

 

Fenris looks at the screen.  That is indeed Anders - his username, his style, his favourite hero.  Fenris nods, and ignores the flutter in his belly.  “Yes,” he says slowly, “May I…”

“Yeah, fuck… look, I’ll just…” Hawke twists the controller, bodily turning this way and that, eyes rivited to the screen as a Hanzo with the username  _ dashing-vint-pariah _ dances out of the range of fire.  Hawke huffs in irritation, red mist leaching into the edges of the screen, and then is suddenly death-spectating.  “Gah!” Hawke wrinkles their nose, then passes the controller to Fenris without any protest.

 

He restarts a new match, waiting.  There is his character, Genji, with the username he has selected floating above his head.  The Mercy character stands next to him, wings outstretched, and Fenris wonders what Anders might be making of the situation - if, perhaps, he’s guessed already.  They are joined by other heroes - another D.Va, a Reinhardt, several others.  The game begins, and Fenris sticks close to Anders, never letting him out of his sight for more than a few moments, following his movements closely, ignoring the process of the payload through the map to concentrate on buffing Mercy’s defence with his ranged attacks.  He is killed once, respawns far on the other side of the map, but manages to find Mercy again.  And all along, he thinks about Anders - even as the other characters fall, even as Anders works to heal their team, it all feels so right.  The match ends, and a moment later, Fenris feels his phone vibrate.  He fishes it out of his pocket and reads  _ i dont know what to say.  thank you. _  He smiles briefly, and then types back,  _ u don’t have to say anything.  1 more match? _

 

A moments hesitation, then another buzz.   _ yes.  please.  thx fen.  i love you. _

_ love you too, _ he types, then adds,  _ now shut up and play.  use your ultimate this time. _

_ will do, _ comes the reply, and then Fenris turns his eyes back to the screen, still smiling.


	48. Hunger [Anders x M!Hawke]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for un-shit-yourself from a song prompt: the song was _Camel Walk_ by Southern Culture on the Skids.

The dingy theatre stinks of old popcorn and sweat, and Hawke chuckles as he leans up against the snack bar, one of the last to enter the midnight showing.  It’s the last show on the last day of all time for this old place.  The theatre, built in Kirkwall’s glorious past, is now a teetering wreck, a shadow of its former self.  Hawke’s been coming to the Sunday matinee horror movie since he moved here - it’ll be a shame to lose the place.  It used to be known as the Golden Lotus Theatre, back in the day;  but now half the letters have dropped off, the rest chipped and faded, leaving only the first half of each word.  So now, people call it the Gallows.  Fitting really - the place is a death trap, and will be demolished in less than a month.  Progress, Hawke supposes.

Suddenly, a scream rips through the speakers, and the crowd already inside the theatre burst into hoots and shrieks of joy.  Hawke laughs quietly, listening, waiting for the bored server to dig the popcorn out of the warmer and into the huge bag.  He’s seen this movie before, at least four times, and cannot help miming along with Vincent Price’s evil-sounding laughter, hands hooked into claws.  Then he intones along with the movie dialogue, “The ghosts are restless tonight… hungry…”

 

He overhears a small laugh from beside him and turns, beaming.  “May I introduce myself?” he laughs, knowing it is the next line of dialogue - but also being rather smug at his conversational segue, because the man standing next to him… well.  He’s… something else.  Tall.  Red-gold hair, pulled back into a short pony-tail.  Shy smile which curls his lip, under eyes that aren’t shy at all, their bold gaze sweeping up Hawke’s chest, over his broad shoulders.  Hawke smirks and says, “My name’s Hawke.”

 

“Wrong,” the man says, and smiles.  “Doesn’t it go:  _ I’m Watson Pritchard.  And in just a minute, I’ll show you the only really haunted house in the world? _ ”

“Impressive,” Hawke tells him, and folds his arms, smirking.  “I just didn’t want to come off as too much of a horror nerd.”

The man snorts, giving Hawke an appraising look.  Then he tucks a loose hank of hair behind his ear.  “Are you saying I’m a nerd?” he asks, and Hawke’s smile falters.  Before he can stumble out a response though, the server puts the bag of popcorn down on the counter and looks at him, irritated, expectant.  “Oh,” Hawke says blithely, “I suppose you want money.”  

 

The server merely arches an eyebrow.  Hawke grins then digs in his pocket for notes and change.  But as he pulls the last few coins from his pocket, one of them falls out of his hand, slipping between his fingers.  He watches it hit the ground, bounce, and then the man beside him steps on it to prevent it going anywhere.  “Thanks,” Hawke tells him, going to his knees, already stretching out his hand so that he might collect his coin from under the man’s… “Pointy boots?” he asks, looking up at the man incredulously.

 

The man lifts his foot and laughs.  It’s got a nice ring to it, that sound, and Hawke becomes acutely aware that he’s kneeling in front of this man, this stranger, here in the half-light of a dismal movie theatre lobby.  He swallows, bites his lip, then takes the coin, rising again.  In that brief moment, he had imagined so much - the cock nudging at the back of his throat, the feel of the cold, cracked linoleum under his knees as he sucks this man off.   _ Shit that’s pathetic, _ he chides himself and rubs his neck as he puts the coin down on the counter for the server.  “I don’t know,” the man says, looking down at his boots, “I like them.”

“Yeah,” Hawke says, even as his mind gibbers  _ come on, just ask him, it’s been too long, too fucking long, Hawke, get it together _ .  He clears his throat.  “So… I…”

The man drops a wink and smirks, a smile blooming slowly on his lips.  When the server slams his drink down on the counter, he picks it up and sucks at the straw, his eyes never leaving Hawke’s.  Hawke swallows noisily, and tries again, “Look, do you…?”

“Movie’s started,” the man says.  Hawke turns as he walks toward the dark theatre, away from him.  “Are you coming?” the man asks and grins over his shoulder.  Hawke arches an eyebrow, watching the roll of the man’s hips as he walks away.  Then he shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and exhales loudly, trying to clear his head.  The ghosts aren’t all that are restless tonight, he thinks to himself, picking up his popcorn and following the man into the creaking old theatre, into the dark.


	49. Make the Best of It [No Ship, Inquisitor!Carver]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for athos, from a song prompt (I remember it was Depeche Mode, but damned if I can remember the actual song), and the suggestion of Inquisitor Carver. This was glorious to write.

“Bloody V _ void _ ,” Carver sneers, teeth aching in the frigid mountaintop air, arms aching with being tied behind himself for so long.  “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

The blond man looks at him again, and something in his eyes registers.  “You?  You’re the… they pulled  _ you  _ out?”  His mouth opens soundlessly, moving like a fish out of water for a moment as he stares at Carver who sniffs in distain.  Feels good to have a sword at his back again; could do without this bloody feeling that they’re going to start looking at him to fix this shit though.  And his hand itches.  He shakes his head at the blond, opening his mouth to speak, then the Seeker strides up.  “This is…” she begins, and Carver waves her off.

 

“I know who he is,” he grumbles, “Bloody Cullen bloody Rutherford, Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall Templars.  I know who the bloody Void he is.”  He sniffs again and looks at the wounded man that Cullen is trying to hold up.  “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Right,” Cullen says, and shuffles the man around in a circle, hobbling away.  Carver watches them go, and turns to Varric, who rubs his mouth, trying to disguise his grin.

“Shut it, you,” he grumbles at the dwarf, and Varric laughs.

“Oh, Junior,” he says, “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

 

Carver can only sigh.

 

-|||-

 

“They told me you’re a Warden.  You’re not a bloody Warden,” Carver tells him, and the man who looks like some bad writer’s version of a blacksmith takes the tiniest step backward.  

“What did you say, pup?” he growls, and puts a hand on the pommel of his sword.  Carver shakes his head.

“Look, old man.  For one thing, don’t call me pup.  For another thing,  _ I’m _ a bloody Warden.  And I know I don’t know ‘em all personally, but I know the  _ type _ .”  He glowers at the man.  “We never recruit alone.  Fereldan Warden’s especially.”

“Well, uh…” the man stammers, and Carver claps a hand onto one brawny shoulder.  

“Hey,” he says, dropping the aggression right out of his tone, hoping to set the man even more off balance, “You know what?  I don’t give a shit what you are.  We don’t need you for the treaties - I saw to that already.  But I saw you fight.  You’re good.  You want to do more of that, help us mend that bloody great hole in the sky - then come along.  Sign up.  We could always use good men like you.”  He pauses, narrowing his eyes and smiling.  “Blackwall, isn’t it?”

 

The man nods stiffly, but he takes Carvers proffered hand anyway, accepting the handshake.  “Blackwall then.  Welcome to the Inquisition.”

 

-|||-

 

“What’s the plan?” Varric screams across the burning wreck of the gates as they fight the oncoming hordes, just bodies upon ruined bodies, all savage teeth and flailing arms and sharp shards of red lyrium.  Carver grunts, throwing off a man who seems to be unaware that there are several arrows still sticking out of his back and left arm, then kicks the man hard in the chest.  The man is thrown backward, onto a sharpened wooden paling which appears, bloody, on the other side of his chest.  He stares at it for a moment, looks at Carver, and tries to get up, struggles for a moment, then dies.

 

“Bloody void,” Carver mutters, and then yells to Varric, “When did I ever have a bloody plan?  Just kick the shit out of them!”  

The elf, Sera, laughs deliriously.  “Good plan, bossy britches,” she tells him, then shrieks, “Eat it!” as she unleashes another torrent of arrows into the night.  Carver throws a glance in her direction, then raises his sword, thinking,  _ If Haven survives the night, it’ll be a fucking miracle.  A dragon’s all we need to make my night complete. _

 

Of course, with that, there is a scream from overhead and the flap of leathery wings.  As a shadow passes overhead, Carver feels as if somewhere, his brother is laughing his arse off at him.  He groans, then yells as he runs into the oncoming surge of fighters, “Welcome to the Inquisition, arseholes!”

 

-|||-

 

“You have  _ got _ to be kidding me,” Carver groans when he sees who it is standing with Varric on the battlements.  He looks at the tallish, dark haired man and asks, “Give me one good reason not to get Cassandra up here?”

“For one thing, she’d ruin my pretty face, and then Anders and Fenris would be very cross with you,” Taliesin smirks.  “Also, hello to you.  Nice to see I’m still the only Hawke with any tact.  How’s the Inquisition treating you, brother?”

“That’s  _ Inquisitor _ to you, arsehole,” Carver growls.  He takes a second to compose himself and glowers at Varric, “Don’t even start with me, dwarf.”

“Whaddya mean?” Varric grins, “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you looked like you were going to,” Carver mutters, and Taliesin shrugs.

“He’s got you there, Var.  You are a chatty little bastard.”  He sighs and leans agains the masonry, folding his arms over his chest, grinning at Carver.  “So, first the Wardens, now this?  Hawke luck, am I right?”  He doesn’t wait for an answer, “Are you coming out to Crestwood, help me fix this Maker damned mess?  I want to get home to my darlings.”

 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Carver tells him, “You’re bloody staying here and we’ll all go to Crestwood together.  Then you can sort your own damn shit out.  You were the one that let the darkspawn out of the bag.”

“Oh, come  _ on _ ,” Taliesin begins, pushing himself off the wall and opening his arms wide.  Carver stops him with a gesture.  Taliesin recoils from the weird glow in his hand, and Carver smirks.

“Nope, go on and get yourself sorted for a room.  Varric can help you.”  He smiles, “Welcome to the Inquisition,  _ brother _ .”

 

He turns and walks away, chuckling to himself.  Maybe this Inquisitor lark isn’t so bad after all.


	50. The Fear [Samson & Orsino, prompted]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt from the ever-charming tsurai, based on the translation of the Japanese word _boketto_ : to stare vacantly into the distance, as if in thought. Tags include: addiction, drug use, Circle life, Mages and Templars.

His heart races, his pulse is in his temples, the bright, clean taste of the lyrium in the back of his throat.  The red stone of the wall in front of him blurs then snaps quickly back into focus as the lyrium hits his bloodstream, leaving him momentarily breathless.  Then Samson gasps, a great whooping breath, and grins at the quartermaster, who gazes levelly back.  “That’s the good stuff,” he laughs and hands the empty phial back.  

 

It’s been six weeks since he’s been back at the Gallows, and Maker it feels good.  All the lyrium he wants, right there, right down the hall - no more begging, no more nights when he’d awake with a scream in his throat, fear sitting on his chest, its talons dug deep into his skull.  Samson grins, swaggering a little as he walks down the corridor.  It’s so  _ good _ , this feeling - the blue takes all the fear away, leaves nothing but pure reaction, nothing but the knowledge that whatever you do, it’s  _ right _ .  It is so good, in fact, that it almost makes up for the iniquity of all that he’s witnessed in his six weeks back.  The first week was the worst.  Three failed Harrowings - three more Tranquil.  Two enchanters accused of being maleficar and sentenced to imprisonment at Aeonir.  The fear in the air is almost palpable, so thick some days he can hardly breathe, and in the first week, it was all he could do to ride it out.  The lyrium makes it all easier, though even lyrium cannot make it all gone.

 

He reaches his post, a niche cut into the rock opposite a storeroom, and sighs, turning into it.  He hates waiting here in the gloaming of the corridor, lying in wait for some poor bastard to put a foot wrong.  Usually, he whistles quietly to himself so that at least any mage approaching will hear him.  He can hear any Templar - their armour clanks against the stone, meaning he can stop any forewarning he’s doing in time not to get caught.  That, of course, doesn’t bear thinking about; being thrown out of the Order once was bad.  Twice might just be the death of him.

 

But it’s quiet today, and Samson finds himself staring into space, mind on nothing in particular.  The dizzying heights of the lyrium high have faded somewhat, leaving him feeling mellow - though here in the Gallows, there is such a pervasive misery, it can sneak up on you, become part of your mind without you realising it.  Samson shifts from foot to foot, his mind continuing to wander, gazing blankly into space.  Then he snaps quickly to alertness when he hears footsteps hurrying his way.  

“...wouldn’t do it,” a voice mutters, “and you know full well the consequences if we are caught.”

“But not for you, surely,” another voice whispers, and the first voice - familiar, clipped in accent, formal almost to the point of coldness - laughs flatly.

“For us all.  My standing as First Enchanter would not save any of us,” the first voice states, and Samson starts to whistle.  It’s tuneless, desperate, the noise of it cutting through the hush.  The footsteps pause, and the second voice moans, “Oh Maker, no.”

 

Samson stops whistling, his breathing loud in the gloom.   The footsteps and voices have stopped.   _ Just turn around _ , he thinks,  _ Just turn around, go back.  I don’t need to see you. _  The silence seems to stretch on forever, and then the first voice demands, “Who is it?”

Samson swallows, stepping out of the niche.  For a moment, he looks at the two mages; the human, a woman, her hands clasped before her, her Circle robes new, the elf staring at him with eyes which betray nothing, his chin raised proudly, hands relaxed at his side.  Finally, Samson finds his voice.  “Go back,” he tells them softly, “You don’t need to be here.  Just…”

 

“Ser, please,” the woman begins, but the elf puts his hand on her arm, and she falls to silence.  After a moment longer, the elf takes a deep breath and speaks.  “Templar, do you know who I am?”

Samson blinks, nods slowly, realisation dawning.  “First Enchanter Orsino,” he says, then shakes his head, “Doesn’t matter.  Knight-Commander said…”

Orsino raises an eyebrow and steps closer to him - so close that Samson can almost feel the coil and burn of magic upon his skin.  “And since when do you follow the Knight-Commander’s word on everything?” he murmurs, and Samson cannot help his returning snort.  

 

“Yeah, well,” is his weak response, “You know I’m here now.  So how about you find another place to have this conversation, huh?”  He sniffs, glances away from the First Enchanter’s penetrating stare, “I hear there’s an alcove next to the kitchens that’s nice this time of day.”

There is silence for a moment, and Samson returns his gaze to Orsino’s face in time to see a look of suspicion flit briefly across his features.  Then the elf nods quickly, and turns, gesturing to the woman to follow.  They move down the corridor, away from him, and Samson follows their backs, his brow creasing to a worried frown.  He rubs his chest absent-mindedly, then moves back to the niche, once more allowing his gaze to wander over the red stone.  He tries to obtain that similar sense of mental weightlessness that the lyrium had given him - but all he finds when he reaches for it is the memory of Orsino’s face and the coldness in his voice as he’d asked,  _ Templar, do you know who I am? _

_ I don’t know anything for sure anymore _ , he thinks, and resumes his whistling.


	51. No Goodbyes [Samson x Cullen, unprompted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of an angsty pre-break-up, rainy day sullen.

“Where the fuck are you goin’?”

 

His hand is on the door.  He doesn’t need to answer, he could just go.  Cullen’s shoulders ache with tension, his head swims with it, but all he needs to do is twist the handle, pull the door open and walk out into the night.  He knows that.  

He also knows that if he walks out the door, there will be no walking back in.  Samson - Lee as he is in happier times; the name moaned against damp skin, or laughed as his hand is caught and held tightly, not this Raleigh, this stranger - he holds a grudge with an iron fist.  And he’s made up his mind that it’s the new job Cullen’s got that has to go.  Maker but he has been  _ insufferable _ about it, completely unsubtle about Cullen’s long hours and Cullen’s stress and Cullen’s need to look after himself,  _ fuck work, c’mon, you gotta eat sometime. _  He swallows and tightens his hand on the door.  “Out,” he replies coldly, not looking around.  “I won’t fight anymore.”

Silence for a moment, then Samson scoffs.  There is a shuffle of feet against carpet and then he growls, “Piss on that.  You don’t turn around and just  _ walk out _ .  You wanna choose them over me - over  _ us _ \- then you fucking tell me to my face.  Or are you a coward as well?”  The sound of a breath in the still room, then Samson sighs.  “Cullen, fuck.  I didn’t mean...” Samson says softly, and there is something in his voice so brittle, so aching, that Cullen’s hand slides from the handle of the door.  He swallows hard, but does not turn around.  More silence.  This is… ah, it is awful.  So awful that after a moment longer, Cullen turns around.

 

“It’s not like that and you know it,” he seethes, clenching his fist around the collar of his jacket, held in one hand.  “I’m good at it, Lee.  They took a chance hiring me, and now I’ve… I’ve got to prove that I’m worth it, that it’ll work out.  I’m not…”

“You’re not sleeping, is what you’re doin’,” Samson snarls and takes three quick paces from the door of the kitchen into the narrow corridor.  His fists are clenched at his sides, and for a wild moment, Cullen thinks he might throw a punch.  But then Samson’s shoulders sag, and he looks at the ground.  “You don’t seem to realise it, and it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tell you,” he says softly.  “You  _ are _ worth it, Cullen.  You don’t need to kill yourself over a fucking job to prove that.”

 

Silence again in the house, fraught.  But into the silence comes a soft noise, a tap, followed by another and another, until the noise builds slowly to a faint  _ tuka-tuk-tuka-tuka _ and Cullen realises it has begun to rain.  He blinks, looking at Samson, who looks up at him finally.  “Please,” he says, the look in his eyes sad, almost resigned.  “I… look, I’ll shut up about it, okay?  Just… don’t go.  Please.”

He wants to stay.  He wants it with all of his heart.  But he knows that in the end, his head will win - and his head is telling him that Samson will not shut up about it, that slowly he will wheedle his way into making Cullen quit.  And if he quits this job then… _ it’s not just a job, _ he thinks,  _ it’s the only way I have to dig myself out of the hole my life has become.  It’s my self-respect.  It’s my hope.  I… I can’t give it up.  I won’t. _

Something seems to unfurl within him, something which asks,  _ Not even for him? _

And Cullen blinks, raises his hand to the door handle once more - because he knows the answer to that question.  He swallows again, makes himself look at Samson, and tells him, “I’m sorry, Lee.”  Then he turns around, opens the door, and walks out, into the rain.


	52. The Dance [Anders x Fenris, prompted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the charming tumblr damnedapostate for the prompt for this one: this is from 'the things you said when' prompt list... but because I'm posting this here far, far after the fact, I can't remember what either of them was supposed to have said. Oh, aby. 
> 
> Mostly shameless fluff in this one. Or my version of it, anyway.

A slide of skin against the stone, then silence.  Anders drifts for a mere second, then comes awake quickly with a quiet gasp.  He lies in the bed, still, stiff with tension, waiting for the sound to come again.  It does, and he sits up, looks to the left to see that Fenris is gone.

 

This is Fenris’ house.  Well, no, not Fenris’ house.  But it’s been years, hasn’t it, since Danarius has been back.   _ What if tonight is the night _ ? Anders thinks, and feels Justice flare within him.  Maker, how he’d like to show that bastard a thing or two - namely, that mage or no,  _ nothing _ permits keeping another being the way that Fenris was kept.  Anders bristles, throws off the covers, and quietly gets up, his bare feet chilly on the stone floor.  

 

That faint whisper of noise comes again, and a small grunt.  It is followed quickly by a thump.  Anders pauses, his hand on the doorframe, eyes narrowed.  What on earth is going on in this house?   _ Perhaps Fenris has taken it upon himself to move those ghastly corpses _ , he thinks, and frowns, shakes his head.  No.  The noises are too inconsistant for that.  This is something else.  Anders waits, listening carefully at the top of the stares.  A low lamp burns below him, and as he watches, something streaks quickly through the doorway to the left.

 

It is Fenris.  He holds his head high, running swiftly and gracefully through the doorway.  As Anders watches, he pivots, one leg up, his arms held parallel with his shouders, bent at the elbow.  He leaps, twisting in midair, the movement impossible - he kicks his leg out on the descent of his jump, uses the momentum to twist again, bringing his opposing leg around in a wide arc.  He spins, rising up on the ball of his foot, holding the other leg high in the air.  Anders can only stare at him.  This… this is… “Beautiful,” he murmurs, completely unconsciously, and Fenris stumbles.

 

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry!” Anders yelps, descending the stairs quickly.  “I didn’t mean to, I heard a noise and…”

“It is fine,” Fenris says gruffly, picking himself up and dusting his leggings off with both hands.  He looks at Anders briefly, and smiles.  “I did not want to wake you.  You looked so peaceful.”

“Maker, don’t worry about me,” Anders blusters, “What about you?  Are you hurt?”

Fenris shakes his head.  “Not at all,” he says quietly, then his smile twists into a smirk.   “Care to join me?”

Anders guffaws.  “Me and my two left feet?  No.  What I do could hardly be called dancing.  I… I like to watch you though.  If that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Fenris tells him, and brushes his hand gently along the edge of Anders’ jaw.  He smiles, then turns, makes the movement into a wonderful elongated spin, dancing away from Anders.  Anders drinks in the motion, not feeling the smile on his face, simply wondering at the series of moments which had bought their lives together.  He may not feel capable of joining Fenris in his dance, but he feels as if his heart is singing.


	53. Patience [m!Hawke x Anders, prompted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the utterly wonderful (and patient) csssl, who prompted this. Again, from the 'things you said', and thankfully my notes are complete because it's the prompt 'things you said after I got out of jail.'

The waiting room is cold, and Anders folds his arms over his chest, trying to keep warm, watching the room carefully.  The ancient tiles squeak under the sneakers of the jittery elf being marched through, arms held tightly by two uniformed humans.  “It wasn’t me, man,” the elf pleads, “C’mon, man, you got the wrong guy, I was just…”

“Shut it,” one of the officers growls and pulls the elf harder.  His partner grins, then moves to the desk, talking to his colleague.  Anders sighs, his shoulders hunching.  

There is the noise of yelling from behind a closed door, and Anders shakes his head.   _ Don’t, don’t, you idiot, _ he thinks angrily,  _ Do you want them to arrest you again? _  The yelling stops abruptly, and then Hawke is almost shoved through the door, into the waiting room, an officer hard on his heels.  “...fucking mouth,” the officer is saying, but Hawke looks smug in the instant that Anders has to observe his face before the officer guides him over to the reception.  Anders notes his arms are still cuffed behind him, and he frowns.  He gets up, standing still next to the hard moulded plastic chair, while Hawke is uncuffed and signs papers, collects his things.  Then he turns, and Anders jerks his head toward the door, watching as Hawke’s grin curdles into a worried expression.  He waits for Hawke to cross the room, accepts the quick peck on the cheek, the contrite, “Hello, darling. Thank you for coming,” without comment.

 

Outside, the wind howls around the old buildings, the gunmetal grey clouds amassing overhead.  It smells like snow.  Who knows what time it is - he’d arrived at the station at six AM, but now it looks as if it might be ten thirty.  Silently, Anders unlocks the car, throws Hawke the car-keys, and gets into the passenger seat.  He hates driving.  Hawke gets into the driver's side seat, adjusts it forward a little and looks at him.  “Say something, please,” he murmurs.

Anders sighs and shakes his head, not looking directly at him.  Hawke rubs one hand over his stubbled cheek, then exhales.  “I know it was stupid.  I know I shouldn’t have done it, but…”  Anders looks at him as Hawke shrugs and smiles in a hang-dog fashion.  “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

 

Anders shakes his head again.  “No,” Hawke blusters, “I really am.  I promise, look, I promise that that’s behind me now, I’m not going to do dumb shit like that anymore.  I mean, I know I’ve said that before, but this time, I really mean it.  I do.  But I’m really, really sorry.  I can change…”

“No, you can’t.”  Anders takes a deep breath and looks suddenly at Hawke, “You can’t change.  And… in all honesty…”  Anders rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tells Hawke, “I wouldn’t want you to.”  

 

He smiles sadly and reaches over, cupping Hawke’s cheek with one hand.  Hawke is smiling at him, looking confused, and Anders laughs.  “Love, you’re an idiot.  I’ve never known you to be anything else.  But you’re strong, and passionate, and you believe in me, in us, like… like there was never anything else.  You’re amazing.  You’re an idiot, but you’re  _ my _ idiot.  I love you.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Hawke laughs, shaking his head.  “I thought I was toast for sure, this time.”

“Speaking of which,” Anders says drolly, “I’m starving.  Buy me some waffles and we’ll consider it even.”

“You strike a hard bargain, ser,” Hawke tells him, then turns the key in the ignition, checks his mirrors, and pulls away from the curb.


	54. At the Shore [Anders, Justice; prompted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the wonderful earlgreyer1, who prompted me with Alisan Porter's song _Deep Waters_.

Anders thumps himself on the side of the head, trying to dislodge the water in his ear.  Grimacing, he cups the opposing palm over the affected ear, tries to suction the water out, his head cocked on the side.  The sunlight dances over the surface of the water, the pebbled lakeshore a beautiful place for a rest.  Or a tryst, if you didn’t mind stones in your smalls.  He smiles, then winces, rubbing at the new flesh beginning to cover the wound on his chest.  

 

Almost two weeks gone from Amaranthine; another five days, perhaps, to Highever.  Who knows how much longer until he makes shore at Kirkwall.  And who knows how much longer again until he sees Karl - if he ever sees Karl again.  And this new… this thing, this… well.  This…

_ I am Justice.  Call me that. _

Well.  Justice, then.  That makes sense, doesn’t it?  His tone hasn’t changed; still taciturn, stern, humourless.  But no matter what the spirit is or what it calls itself, one thing is certain.  It had saved his life when the Templars had come for him.  He’d been worried, hadn’t he, that merging with Justice would be his undoing - but it had made him stronger.  Anders smiles again, the harsh rubbing motion of his hand softening to something more like a caress.  He’s got too much to lose now - he doesn’t know if the Warden’s will chase him, but the Templars certainly will.  And always, always, it comes back to Karl, back to those memories of how adrift he’d felt after they’d transferred him to Kirkwall, how lost, how alone, how…

_ Anders.  It does no good to dwell on these things.  We have work to do. _

Yes.  Find Karl - find peace.  Find a way to make the Circles better.  Anders smiles, picks up his still-damp robes from the pebbles, pulls them over his head.  He feels better having washed the stink of the Keep off him - even better now that he’s moving again.  One step at a time - one step closer to Karl.  He smiles at the brilliant blue sky, the deep blue of the water, and feels Justice marvel at the sight.

_ So much beauty _ , the spirit sighs, and Anders laughs.  Yes.  Freedom is beautiful.


	55. The Fork in the Road [Cullen x Dorian, prompted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for my Fandom Bestie, snarry_splitpea, and it was prompted from the song 'Bambi' by Jidenna. Post-relationship angst in this one.

Dorian pushes Cullen’s hand away. “Don’t,” he murmurs, not looking up, “Please don’t.”  
Cullen shakes his head, looks over his shoulder. The sunlight streams down between the broken columns of the ancient ruins, turning the world golden. It is a perfect day for a wedding. The small crowd are milling together, laughing and talking. He straightens, looking once more at Dorian, who steadfastly refuses to meet his gaze. Desperately, he wants to reach out once more, touch Dorian, take him by the elbow and… just talk, he only wants to talk. Cullen clenches his fists, bites his lip and murmurs, “Dorian. I… I didn’t know how to say it. Not at the time. But… you were mine once, I loved you, I still do and I…”

“You’re too late,” Dorian tells him. He inhales a long breath, obviously trying to calm himself, and straightens the crisp linen of his overshirt. “Please, Cullen. Don’t do this. I didn’t invite you for this.”  
“Then why did you?” Cullen asks. He runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth, trying to hold back the words. But suddenly, they rush out of him, and he exalts at the feeling, that loss of control, “Dorian, do you really think he’ll make you happy? I know I hurt you, but I want you, I need you, I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I… I’m terrified, please, I know I kept you shut out of my life, but I just…”  
His hands are reaching out again, ready to grab hold of Dorian, to keep him here, hold him close. Maker, he wants it, he wants nothing more than the feel of this man against him once more, to keep him close forever. Dorian scowls, glances at him and steps out of arms reach.

He stares at Cullen, and his eyes blaze with such ire that Cullen stops talking. There is a moment of silence between them, in which the laughter of the assembling guests, the music of their conversation, lilts and dances in the air between them. Then Dorian speaks.  
“It’s too late,” he repeats, and sighs. “When you came to me, when you touched my hand that first time in the arbour as we played chess, when you were half-mad with lack of sleep, when I held you as you shook in my arms, when I kissed you and after, when I… when I told you those things about me, about what I wanted, and I gave you every chance then to… to leave… that would have been the time for this. This conversation. But you made the choice to tell me that you thought there might be something more at that time - and then break my heart when you’d want no part of our relationship in public. You were the one, time and again, who pushed me away. Do you remember what you did when I asked you if perhaps you might want a family one day? You laughed.” Dorian smiles bitterly and shakes his head. “You need to stop remembering how to be the Lion of Skyhold, and remember how to be Cullen again. It was Cullen I loved once. I never loved the Lion.”

Dorian folds his arms over his chest, his shoulders hunched. He looks at Cullen for a moment longer, then shrugs. “For what it’s worth, I hope you’ll be happy one day. I know you will be, if you put your mind to it.” He hesitates, unfolds his arms and with one hand, reaches out toward Cullen. Cullen’s heart leaps in his chest; but before he can take Dorian’s outstretched hand, Dorian pulls it back again and straightens. “Goodbye Cullen,” he says firmly, and walks away, through the beams of light to meet his future, leaving Cullen to his.


	56. Pretty Little Things [Iron Bull x Cullen, prompted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you could cut the UST with a knife in this one. Nothing actually happens, more's the pity... this one is for the gorgeous snarry_splitpea again.

The glimmer of light on brilliant metal strikes his eye, and Cullen blinks.  He’d been staring again.  Ever since Bull had… had done  _ that _ , or had that done, rather, to himself, Cullen had found himself become more and more distracted by the idea.  He smiles, aware and awkward, then looks at Leliana.  “I’m sorry?” he enquires politely, “What were you saying?”

Her expression is placid, though he thinks he sees the skin around her eyes tense.  “Nothing of import, Commander.  I will send a messenger.  In the meantime,” she pauses, and the ghost of a smirk crosses her features, “I will leave you to your… observations.”

“Oh.  Quite,” Cullen says, frowning a little as the Sister takes her leave, striding across the muddy yard.  Surely, she doesn’t know?  Had he really been that obvious?  He rubs the back of his neck, watching as she hails the Iron Bull, who grins at her and shifts his stance.  He is fluid as they speak, his smile open and generous, the motion of his maimed hand through the air graceful, though the Nightingale remains still as stone.  He thinks he sees Bull glance at him, but the gesture is gone so quickly he could not be sure.   _ No,  _ he thinks, and wonders at himself.  Looking does no harm, surely?   _ You were doing more than looking _ , some part of his mind chimes up, and he shifts uncomfortably.  To cover , he barks an order, watches the soldiers move quickly to obey it, and acknowledges a captain, who approaches him with a question.  The day moves on.

 

Later, in his office, Cullen rests his cheek upon his palm and stares into space.  Dimly he is aware of his thoughts, the ones which circle like vultures - aware enough to know that they are there, but not enough to give them form.  He knows he is tired; he cannot remember when last he slept.  Shaking himself, shifting so that he sits upright again, he looks at the page in front of him.  One splot of ink marrs its surface - the rest is blank.  He blinks, wonders if Qunari custom dictates the decoration, then frowns.   _ Where did that come from _ ? he wonders, then grimaces.  For a moment, he sits, still and guilty and frustrated at himself.  Then he throws down his quill and rises, crossing the room and throwing open the door, before striding out onto the battlements.

 

The moonlight sweeps the yard, bathing it in cool silver light.  As Cullen descends the stairs, his mouth tightens - the tavern is noisy tonight.  But he has to say something, do something, has to…  _ get this off my chest _ , he thinks, then scoffs a short, terrified laugh.  He could still brush this off, call it curiosity, but… it’s not, it is and it’s more than that, it’s far more.  He… he knows he would like to ask about how the two gold hoops were put through Bull’s nipples, the actual procedure of it, if it hurt, where on earth one finds rings like that.  But he knows that he’d prefer if Bull would let him touch them, to take them in his mouth perhaps, between his teeth and… Cullen swallows, his throat clicking audibly.  His gloved hand rests on the door of the Herald’s Rest.   _ You can still go back _ , he tells himself, and smiles ruefully.  No.  He is many things, but he is not a coward.

 

Almost as soon as he enters the tavern, the din overwhelms him.  He feels panic begin hammering in his chest, feels every muscle seem to tighten in a fight response.   _ Breathe _ , he reminds himself, and looks around.  Bull is easy to spot.  He is not holding court with his Chargers around him as Cullen had expected, but sitting in a corner, grinning at something his lieutenant is telling him.  Slowly, almost reluctantly, Cullen approaches through the crowds.

 

Bull looks at him over the rim of his tankard, his expression blank.  Cullen clenches his jaw, feels his eyes shift down to the broad expanse of grey skin which is Bull’s chest; unhelpfully, his mind affords him a glimpse of his hand reaching out, smoothing over the skin to the golden ring, the warm metal between his fingers, the faint chime of it as he flicks his nail against it… Cullen takes a deep breath and tries to smile.  Bull moves his eyes to his lieutenant, who is now staring up at Cullen as well.  He lowers his tankard and says, almost too quietly for Cullen to hear, “See ya, Krem.”

The man frowns a little, then shrugs and gets up, shouldering past Cullen, who moves aside slightly.  Bull watches Cullen, seeming to appraise him, then a tiny smile graces his features and his eyes narrow.  Slowly, he rises from his seated position.  

 

_ He knows, he knows! _ Cullen’s mind gibbers, shame and want flaring within him as he realises that Bull’s height means that Cullen’s face is now a mere breath away from Bull’s chest.  But Bull does not touch him, only stands there, and Cullen bites his cheek, forcing down a whimper.  Silence between them, then Bull asks softly, gently, “Something you wanted, Commander?”

Cullen closes his eyes.   _ Yes _ , he thinks,  _ I want… I want _ … _ I want you to ask me.  I need you to ask me to do it, do anything, and I…  _  and the images rise thick and fast, almost as quickly as the shame of such wanting overwhelms him.  He inhales deep, the smell of Bull’s skin, of metal and sweat and blood, it fills his head.  “Nothing,” he says aloud, hating himself for his cowardice, knowing there can be no other way.  Not yet.  He shakes his head, forces himself to look up.  “Nothing,” he tells Bull, who smiles sadly.

“Maybe some other time, then,” he says, and Cullen nods, then turns on his heel and walks away.


	57. Like a Long-Forgotten Dream [Fenris x Anders, prompted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure who prompted this one (note to self, take better notes), but the prompt was: "lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up". Nice.

Anders comes awake quickly, an intake of breath sharp in his throat.  Green eyes, made dark by the diffuse pre-dawn light creeping through the shuttered panes, stare into his.  “Fenris,” he croaks, then sighs, squeezing his eyes shut again.  “Sorry.”

“Do not apologise,” Fenris tells him, and Anders feels the warm weight of his body shift in the bed next to him.  “Sleep if you can.  I will try as well.  Let us stay like this.”

Anders smiles slightly, relaxing once more.  He doubts he will be able to sleep - he rarely falls asleep again after waking, and certainly not when there is so much to be done - but for Fenris’ sake, he tries.  And after a while, he feels his body relax further, his awareness dimming, and then sleep takes him once more.

 

An arm around his waist, a soft, familiar smell.  Anders smiles, buries his nose in the crook of Fenris’ neck without thinking.  He breathes deep, scarcely awake, and sighs against skin.  Softly, he kisses the thin skin over Fenris’ collarbone, feels the elf shift against him and hears a short grunt of satisfaction.  A hand in his hair, then lips against his forehead before Fenris’ murmurs something sleepily.  “Huh?” Anders asks, and Fenris chuckles, shifting down in the bed so that he can brush Anders’ lips with his own.  

“Don’t know,” he murmurs against Anders’ mouth, and even though his eyes are not open, Anders can see the soft smile on Fenris’ mouth.  He sees it in his mind, and feels his throat constrict with the sweet insouciance of this moment.  Anders shivers, his arms drawing tighter around Fenris’ body, only for a second, and then he swallows and softens his grip, pushes forward slightly to kiss Fenris again gently.  Time stretches out around them, full of velvet warmth, and Anders smiles.  “Let’s stay like this forever,” he murmurs, and Fenris murmurs his agreement.


	58. Voices [Alistair Appreciation Week 2017, no ship]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Alistair Appreciation Week on Tumblr, from the prompt _Warden Alistair_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is part of a series which makes up the next few chapters...

Alistair sits up suddenly, a scream in the back of his throat.  For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is, and he blinks in the brilliant light of the full moon.  The trees around them are silent, casting strange shadows on the forest floor.  In the hush, the Archdemon’s words echo and seem to shiver inside his skull, and he reaches up into his hair to grip it hard.  Panic sings through his veins, as his fingers claw at his scalp.   _ Just a dream, just a dream _ , he tells himself, to no avail.  Without meaning to, he moans softly.  Duncan rolls over on the bedroll next to his and growls, “Go back to sleep, boy. It’s just a dream. You know that.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees, and licks his lip.  He’s been a Warden for a month now, or near enough.  In the daylight, he loves it.  Duncan’s hard on him, but… it seems like it comes from a better place than anyone he trained with when he was a Templar.  Alistair takes his hands from his hair and looks at Duncan.  He’s not kinder, not precisely… but at least it seems like Duncan cares.  Alistair snorts a quiet laugh and continues to watch the older man: his mouth open slightly, dark eyebrows knit together.  As if he can feel his gaze, Duncan throws an arm over his face and rolls over, and Alistair smiles.  

 

His heartbeat has slowed its rhythm.  Alistair lies back down on the bedroll, tucks his hands under his head, and gazes up at the moon.  Soon, his eyes grow heavy, and he slides back into the depths of sleep.  This time, it is restful and dreamless.


	59. Attrition [Alistair Appreciation Week 2017, no ship]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Alistair Appreciation Week, for the prompt _King Alistair_.

“...Empty headed bleating of the Bann...”

“...And then the bloody Orlesians…”

“...Well, it wasn’t his fault, he was too young to be Arl, any fool could see…”

Alistair takes a deep breath and looks at Teagan, who shrugs slightly.  Alistair makes a face at him, and turns it into a concerned expression in case anyone is watching him.  And someone is  _ always _ watching him these days, or at least it feels that way.  Never a moment alone.   _ It’s enough to make you wish for a Blight _ , he snickers to himself, then sighs.  The cacophony of the Landsmeet in session is enough to drive anyone to drink, but he suspects that’s probably off-limits for Kings… so instead, he stands, and waits until the room quiets.

“Nobles of the Landsmeet,” he begins, then finds himself at rather a loss.  He takes a deep breath, and blows it out quickly, steeling himself to deliver this news.

 

“Nobles of the Landsmeet,” he repeats, a little quieter this time, “I have received an emissary from the mage faction.  This emissary has asked…”

“I hope you bloody well strung them up!” the Arl of Edgehall bellows, his cheeks pink, flaxen beard stained yellow with tobacco.  There is a half-hearted round of cheering at this, but most of those present stay silent, waiting on his next words.  Alistair is heartened to see the Teryna of Gwaren roll her eyes.  He frowns at Edgehall, and sweeps the room with his gaze.

“This emissary has asked safe haven in Fereldan.  In the name of…”

A susurrus of whispering at that, but Alistair ignores it, merely raises his voice slightly. “In the name of peace, I have consulted with both Highever and Redcliffe…”

Teagan takes a step forward, and Fergus Cousland strides forward from Alistair’s left.  The whispering grows louder.  

“...And our negotiations have indicated that both terynir and arling are favourable to offering haven to the mages…Highever will welcome those travelling from across the Waking Sea, and conduct them on their… on their journey…  _ on their journey south to Redcliffe where…! _ ”

 

The noise has grown to such a level that Alistair realises he is yelling.  He casts a look at Fergus, who shrugs, and Alistair clenches his fists.  Fergus looks a lot like Gwendoline, and sometimes it’s a struggle to look at him and not think of his wife and her increasing obsession with finding a cure for the Blight.  He swallows, takes a step off the dais and raises his chin.

“This is not  _ for _ us, my lords!” he yells, his voice carrying strongly up, over the growing noise of angry conversation.  “This peace is not for us.  We do not live in the villages, we do not experience this war as the people do!  This  _ isn’t about us! _ ”

 

His words bring a quiet down suddenly on the crowd assembled.  Alistair rubs his throat and shakes his head.   _ Like so many bloody children _ , he thinks grumpily, and for no other reason thinks of the mage emissary.  She’d introduced herself as Fiona, and though he’d never admit it, he felt a strange connection with her.  Silly.  Alistair takes another deep breath and speaks again, more quietly this time.

“This is about peace. This is about ending this idiotic war.  We’ve just finished one, and you want to support another?  I can’t countenance that, myself.  So…”

“But what about the Chantry?  And this… Inquisition?” one of the lower nobles yells, and a chorus of agreement raises up.  Alistair sighs.

“We won’t wait for them to bring peace.  Are you telling me we need the Chantry to come and protect us?”  Alistair shrugs, opening his hands wide.  “I love the Maker as much as anyone… but I won’t wait for him to return to the world to save  _ our nation _ .  And I certainly won’t wait for a bunch of Orlesians to tell me what to do.  We’re… well, we’re Fereldan!”  There’s a moment of silence, then someone laughs, and suddenly they’re all laughing, and applauding.  Someone yells, “For Fereldan!” and then they’re all doing it.  “For Fereldan!  For Fereldan!” echoes around the Landsmeet, and Alistair smiles, wondering if he’s done the right thing.

 


	60. Emptiness [Alistair Appreciation Week 2017 - Alistair x f!Cousland]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This work was part of Alistair Appreciation Week 2017 on Tumblr, and was written for the prompt _angst_.

The bed is warm, the sunlight brilliant even before he’s opened his eyes.  Alistair grins and rolls over, reaching out to put his hand on her warm, sleeping flesh…

But she’s not there.

“Gwen?” he says, his eyes fluttering open, voice cracking.  This is their room, in the Keep in Denerim; they’ve been married for two years, and after that awful year when she was in Amaranthine, he swore he’d never let her go again, and… and now…

“Gwennie?” he asks, pulling back the rich woollen coverlet and the furs.   _ Stupid! _ he groans to himself _ , She’s not hiding under the covers _ !  “Gwen?  Come on, it’s not funny.”

Oh, Maker.  No.  Alistair gasps a breath, holds it as he struggles out of bed, bare feet cold on the stone floor.  He doesn’t feel it.  “Gwen!” he shouts, taking the first item of clothing he finds and throwing it over his head.  “Gwennie!”

A knock on the door, and the steward's voice comes: “Sire?  Are you alri..?”

“Where’s Gwennie?” he asks, striding to the door and throwing it open, “Where’s the Queen?”

The man looks astonished.  “She said you knew,” he murmurs, and steps backwards, hands coming up slightly when Alistair moves forward.  “I… I… her handmaids have been dismissed, and…”

“What?   _ What _ ?” he rages, “What did… when did she go?  Did she say why?”

The man shakes his head.  “No, no sire.  She just… she rode out early this morning.  But she said you knew…”

“Well I bloody _ don’t! _ ” he fair screams at the man, who steps back again, eyes round.  “Bloody  _ find _ her, send out dogs, I don’t care, just… just…”  But he can’t think, there’s something here, his heart beats harder in his chest and he puts a hand on it, there in the centre where he feels as if something has been torn out.  “Gwen…” he murmurs, and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“I’ll go immediately, sire,” the man before him trills, and then there is the noise of footfalls retreating rapidly down the corridor.  Alistair swallows and turns slowly, closing the door behind him.  There’s something here.  

He takes a breath and tries to calm himself enough to think it out.   _ There’s something here _ , that phrase, it comes back to him in Gwendoline’s voice.  She’d been reading, one of those daft old books she’d got sent from Weisshaupt, and she’d said:  _ Al, there’s something here.  This says about some Warden that didn’t hear the Call.  After a bit, she just… stopped hearing it.  And if it happened for one of us… _ And she’d lapsed into silence.  But that had been almost six months ago.

 

He puts his head in his hands and closes his eyes, standing still in the doorway.  He’s so lost in thought that when a tentative knock comes against the wood of the door, he starts and whirls abruptly, throwing the door open.  “What?” he snarls, then shakes his head at himself when he sees the young girl quail back, tears standing in her eyes.  She thrusts a piece of parchment forward, murmurs, “From the Queen.”  When he takes it, she turns and flees down the corridor.

“Thank you,” he says to her back, then takes a breath.  He doesn’t wait to be somewhere more private; hands shaking, he tears off the string holding the parchment closed and reads:

> Alistair, my love,
> 
> I have to know.  If there’s a chance for us to be free of this - if there’s a chance for me to be a mother for your children, a chance to end the terror that the Blight holds and the devastation it wreaks, then I have to do this.  I have to know.  And I didn’t tell you, because I knew you’d want me to stay.  I want to stay, please believe me, I do.  But I  _ have to  _ know.
> 
> I am sorry.  I don’t know when I will return.  But know that I will return -- and until then, you are my love, my King, my world.  I love you.
> 
> \-- Gwennie

 

He can’t breathe.  His eyes roam over the words again, barely comprehending them.  “Gwen?” he whispers, distantly appalled when a tear plops onto the black ink, making it run.  “Gwennie?”

And in the first breath he takes on the back of her name, the rage is there.  “What?” he asks the letter, “I don’t understand!  How… how could you leave me?  I… I… Gwennie, I  _ don’t understand _ !”  Frustrated, he throws the letter on the floor and crushes one fist against his mouth, staring at it, then pivots hard, fists still clenched to slam them repeatedly against the wall.  “I don’t understand!” he shouts, hot tears wet and unfelt on his cheeks.  He doesn’t care that the door is open, that his voice echoes down the corridor.  He only feels that hole in his chest, the way his blood seems to sing in his ears and Gwen, his Gwennie, she is gone and he doesn’t know why.  Sobbing now, Alistair leans his forehead against the wall as his knees grow weak.  “Gwen,” he moans, “I don’t understand.  I don’t understand.”

 

And around him, the light grows dim, as the clouds roll over Denerim.


	61. Unsaid Words [Alistair Appreciation Week 2017 - no ship]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Alistair Appreciation Week 2017, for the prompt _family_

“Hello,” he hears from behind him, and turns quickly, trying not to look too guilty.  A dark-haired elf stands there, her eyebrow raised slightly, a small smile on her lips.  He swallows and grins.

“Hello,” Alistair echoes, “I’m not… I mean, I just…” He bites his lip and chuckles.  “Okay.  You got me.  I have cheese in my pocket.”

The woman laughs and sidles closer.  They’re in the small garden at Skyhold, just outside the Chantry.  It’s nice here, Alistair thinks; cold, but nice.  There isn’t much growing in abundance, but it’s quiet at least.  The woman watches him for a moment, then murmurs, “I’ll never tell.”

“Oh, Maker, well, that’s a relief, honestly,” he smiles at her, then frowns a little.  “Have we met before?  You seem familiar.”

The woman shakes her head; her stare becomes almost worried looking, and then she tries a smile.  “Well, I should have been more clear, perhaps. I’ll never tell,  _ if you share _ .”

Alistair laughs.  “You’d eat cheese from a stranger’s pocket?”

The woman shrugs.  “You’re hardly a stranger.  That is to say,” she continues, hurrying on almost as if she is embarrassed, “Everyone here knows who you are.  You and Stroud.  You’re Grey Wardens.”

“Yeah,” Alistair sighs, and digs the package out of his pocket.  He unwraps the linen and holds it out to her.  The woman smiles at him, and breaks off a piece of the small wedge.  She pops it into her mouth and begins chewing -- Alistair mimics her gestures, frowning again, feeling a little confused.  “You know,” he says through a mouthful, “You really do seem familiar.”

The woman continues chewing for a moment, then swallows and looks away.  “Well,” she begins, and smiles softly, “Let me introduce myself.  I am Fiona.  Previously I held the title  _ Grand Enchanter _ … and before that, I was with the Wardens myself.”

 

Alistair almost chokes on his mouthful.  Hastily, he swallows, coughs a little into his hand and realises he is gawping.  “I’m sorry,” he says, “Maker, really?  I mean… you can’t just stop being a Warden, can you?  I’ve never heard of that.”

Fiona laughs a little.  “It isn’t common.  And… I certainly didn’t leave by choice.”  She waves her hand and glances at him cryptically.  “It doesn’t matter.  The past is past.  Alistair…” she seems to hold her breath, tense, as if she is on the verge of saying something more.  He cocks his head slightly, and then her shoulders slump a little and she smiles.  “I heard about the Warden Commander.  I hope he finds what he is looking for.”

“Me too,” Alistair sighs.  For a moment there, it had seemed as if she would say something else.  But they smile at each other, and then Fiona blinks. 

“Keep well, Warden Theirin,” she murmurs, and turns, walking away.  He watches her go, puzzled for a moment, then looks at the cheese in his hand.  Suddenly, he finds, he isn’t hungry anymore.


	62. Unknown Territories [Alistair Appreciation Week 2017 - no ship]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Alistair Appreciation Week 2017, this is written on the theme _friendship_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags which apply to this work: unplanned pregnancy, religious discussions, mages and templars, Circle of Magi.

“Good,” she laughs, “It appears you got away from the Chantry just in time.”

Alistair laughs as well, more out of shock than anything else.  Wynne… has a  _ son _ .  He swallows, his brow creasing.  They’d talked about Circle life a little.  They’d talked about so many things.  But this?  It comes as something of a surprise.  Lost in thought, Alistair almost trips over a root; he stumbles and collects his balance just in time.  Wynne has moved a little ahead of him, but she glances backward when she hears him and asks, “Are you alright?  I do hope I haven’t shocked you, Alistair.”

“Who, me?” he blusters, and Zevran turns around, smirking.

“Are we trying to shock Alistair?” he purrs, “Not much of a challenge, I would have thought…”

“Oh, yes,  _ ha-ha _ …” Alistair rolls his eyes, then Cousland is flapping her hand for quiet and he has to content himself with poking his tongue out at Zevran, who only smirks.  Once the elf’s gaze is drawn away, Alistair finds his own sliding back to Wynne, and his thoughts moving in strange directions.

 

“Wynne,” Alistair mutters quietly, kneeling down next to her at the campfire, later that evening, “Can I ask you something?”

“It depends on what the something is, Alistair,” Wynne smiles at him.  Then her expression changes, concern creasing her brow.  “What is it?”

“I just… I just… I mean,” he begins, and then sighs.  

Wynne leaves the moment hanging in the air, then tells him softly, “Is this regarding what we spoke of earlier?”

Grimly, Alistair nods.  “I… know what the Chantry says.  About… you know.”  He closes his eyes for a second and swallows, then opens them again to look at the log which she sits on.  “People who have babies before they’re married.  But…”  Another deep breath, and this time, he finds he’s able to look at her face, “I also trained to be a Templar.  I was never assigned to a Circle, but… you hear things.  About…. how it is.  So… I guess… my question was… did you love him?  The father?  You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”

 

 Wynne chuckles softly, then sighs.  The sound is sad and Alistair blinks and looks away to give her a moment.  The silence stretches, broken only by the crackle of the fire and Leliana's laughter from inside her tent.  Alistair draws breath, about to apologise and take it all back, when Wynne tells him quietly, “Not as much as he loved me.”

Alistair sighs shakily and waits.  Wynne looks at him, a small, rueful smile at the corners of her mouth.  “It was a long time ago,” she continues, “I was young, and I was ambitious, in my way.  He was too -- it was one of the things I liked best about him.  Fair, honest to a fault… but ambitious.”  She shakes her head and looks at Alistair.  “He wrote me a letter after the baby was taken, asking me why I never fought to keep him.  The baby, I mean.  And only two days after that, he was transferred to Denerim.  I saw him again -- he came back to Kinloch -- but by then, he had changed.  So had I.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair blurts, and Wynne chuckles again.  It sounds lighter this time, and she touches his elbow gently.

“Why?” she asks him, “We live our lives to the best of our abilities, Alistair.  That’s all we can do.”  Wynne squeezes his elbow and they look at each other; her smile widens a little and she shakes her head.  “I  _ do _ like you, you know.  And I do hope you still like me.”

 

Alistair laughs.  He remembers her comment:  _ I imagine my son would have grown up to be someone like you _ , and swallows, thoughts flashing of his own mother.  Then he grins at her and says, “Of course.  You’re my most favouritest mage ever.”

“Why thank you, Warden Alistair,” Wynne smiles, then rolls her eyes, “Now, if I could ask you to please, stop leaving your socks in my bedroll?”

“It’s the dog, I swear,” Alistair grins.   _ Denerim _ , he thinks, and frowns slightly,  _ but there aren’t any Circles in Denerim.  Wasn’t it destroyed in the Towers Age?  If he was a mage, why would they send him to Denerim?  There’s only… _ He exhales suddenly, just catching the words  _ Templar hall _ on his tongue.  Wynne smiles at him and he returns the gesture.  “Thank you,” he tells her, then gets up, mind whirling.  “I’d better get some sleep.”

“Alright, Alistair,” Wynne says, and looks back down at her stitching.  “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Alistair mutters, and turns away.


End file.
